


The Second Scent

by chshrkitten



Category: Double Indemnity (1944), Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: (is there a word for that?), And it is a background relationship, Badass Christine Daaé, Double Indemnity AU, Femme Fatale, Film Noir, Insurance Fraud, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, The underage warning is for a teenager dating a 22 year old, Unhappy Ending, Work In Progress, but at least theres, christine and meg do not deserve this shit, complete work, male femme fatale, more characters/tags/warnings will be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-03-27 02:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chshrkitten/pseuds/chshrkitten
Summary: "Sighing, Raoul turned back. “Look, Erik, you can't get away with it.”“Get away with what?”“You want to kill her, don't you?” The words dropped like stones into the water of the huge, tomb-silent house."An E/R AU based on the movie Double Indemnity. You don't have to have seen the movie to understand this story.





	1. In The Case of a Fatal Accident

“Yes, I killed him. I killed him for money, and a woman, and I didn't get the money, and I didn't get the woman. Pretty, isn't it?”

\--Walter Neff, opening scene of Double Indemnity

Everything started in a nice, respectable, upper-class neighborhood in Los Angeles, on a beautiful spring afternoon.

Actually, that isn't strictly true. In some ways it had all started years before that, but as far as Raoul de Chagny was concerned, everything started in the late May of 1937, with an ordinary afternoon’s work.

It wasn't even a particularly notable assignment; just driving up to the Los Feliz district to ask after some auto renewals. There had been some confusion with the newer guy the company had first tried sending down-- apparently he had spent twenty minutes trying to get the man of the house to talk to him, unsuccessfully, before figuring out that the policies were all in the wife’s name anyway. Raoul had tried very hard not to laugh when the guy told him that story.

Now, he drove slowly up the tree-lined street, enjoying the way the shadows of palm fronds came in through his car windows and dappled the passenger’s side with shade. On the other side of the road, some kids tossed a baseball back and forth across a smooth green lawn. Somewhere in the distance, an ice cream truck singsonged its tune, artlessly soundtracking suburbia. Days like this made Raoul wonder why he even missed France, when America could be so beautiful in its own way.

Altogether, he was in a wonderful mood by the time he rang the doorbell at the Dietrichson residence. Not even the frowning face of the maid who greeted him could dampen his spirits. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Is Mrs. Dietrichson in?”

“Who wants to see her?”

“My name is Raoul. Raoul de Chagny.”

The obviously foreign name hardly seemed to increase her confidence in him. “If you're selling something--”

“Look,” he cut her off, shooting her his most charming smile. She was unmoved. “It's Mrs. Dietrichson I'd like to talk to, and it's not about magazine subscriptions. Promise.” She didn't move, and he started to wonder if he'd have to push past her. Everyone said it was necessary sometimes, but Raoul really hated that part of the job.

“Mrs. Dietrichson is not in.”

“Well, how soon do you expect her?”

“She’ll be home when she gets here, if that's any help to you.”

Not shockingly, it wasn't. Just as the conversation was turning into a standoff, a new voice floated down from inside. “Nettie, who is this?”

It was a man’s voice, a smooth tenor that made even one short sentence seem melodic. Nettie, however, was unaffected. “Some salesman, sir.”

“Not a salesman!” Raoul called hopefully through the half-open doorway. “I'm from Pacific All-Risk Insurance, about the policy on Mrs. Dietrichson’s automobiles.”

“Let him in, Nettie."

She did so, albeit with a put-upon sigh. At last, Raoul stepped into the house.

It was furnished predictably enough, with the kind of faux-Spanish stylings that Americans seemed to find fashionable, but Raoul wasn't really looking at the decor. His attention was entirely caught by the man who stood at the top of the sweeping front staircase. He was...well, he was appetizing, Raoul could think of no other word for it.

The man was dressed in a simple, dark suit, closely tailored to fit his slim form. He stood with the easy, graceful posture of a dancer-- or perhaps a singer, Raoul speculated, with a voice that smooth. The only thing interrupting the fluid line of his stance was one hand held up, in a curious position, so that it covered half of his face. His head was tilted slightly to one side as he surveyed Raoul from above, and his smooth hair glinted like mahogany in the light from the open windows.

Raoul tried very, very hard not to stare.

“It's for Mrs. Dietrichson.” Nettie broke in.

“Well, considering that I'm Mr. Dietrichson.” The man answered with the pointed patience of someone who had had this conversation before. “What did you say you were here for?” This was directed, languidly, at Raoul.

“Oh.” Raoul tried to regain his bearings. “Afternoon. I'm from the Pacific All-Risk Insurance Company. It's about some renewals on the automobiles. I've been trying to contact your wife for the past two weeks, but she never seems to be home…?”

The stranger smiled. “Anything I can do?”

Raoul supposed there was. Assumedly, Mr. Dietrichson handled the finances anyway. They just couldn't contact him directly, since his name wasn't on the papers. “The insurance ran out on the fifteenth. I'd hate to think of you getting a smashed fender when the company wouldn't be able to cover it."

“Let me come down.” He did so, descending so gracefully that Raoul reconsidered the dancer theory. “I think we should talk in the living room, Mr…?”

“Raoul de Chagny.”

“Raoul de Chagny.” The man repeated softly. He was one of the very few people in America who had pronounced it perfectly on the first try. “You go on in. I'll be there in one moment.” Raoul also noticed that the man spoke with the carefully upper class enunciation of someone who hadn't actually grown up in the upper class. You heard that way of speaking a lot around here, on the spouses of the affluent-- though, normally it wasn't the husband who had clearly married in.

“Alright, thank you Mr. Dietrichson.”

“Please, call me Erik.”

The living room was furnished in much the same way as the rest of the house, but it was clean, and nice enough. The only thing that seemed not to fit with the design scheme was the grand piano that stretched itself out in the far corner of the room. Its smooth black surface was cluttered with a messy pile of sheet music, a few pens, and two photographs.

Curious now, Raoul walked over to examine them.

One was of a hard-mouthed woman with her hair pulled sleekly back against her skull. She looked as though she had been shockingly beautiful once, before she had been simply middle-aged. The elusive Mrs. Dietrichson, Raoul assumed.

The other was of a teenage girl. In the picture, her dark eyes were wide and almost startled looking in their innocence, but her smile looked sharp enough to cut glass. She bore a striking resemblance to the woman in the first picture-- the same dark skin (not as though they were colored, exactly, but as though someone in a previous generation could have been), the same large eyes, the same narrow features. A daughter, Raoul guessed, or perhaps a niece.

His musings were interrupted by a polite cough from the other side of the room. He turned, and saw Erik Dietrichson standing in the doorway, smirking at him. He flushed.

“Thank you for waiting for me, Raoul.”

“Oh, no trouble."

“I hope I've got my ‘face’ on straight, is all.” He said with a sudden wry tone. He picked up a gilt hand mirror from a nearby table, and examined his reflection.

It was then that Raoul noticed the mask-- or maybe it was a prosthetic? The side of Erik Dietrichson’s face that had previously been covered with his hand was now encased by several pieces of a smooth, skin-toned material. Porcelain, or maybe some thin plastic. Earlier, Raoul had thought that the man’s mouth was twisted into a playful smirk. Seeing him closer, he realized that his lips might actually just be twisted.

It didn't make Raoul want to look at him any less.

“Looks alright for my money.” Raoul said, keeping his tone matter of fact. “Been in the war?” The man looked a little young for that to be the case, but Raoul had only seen similar prosthetics on soldiers.

“No, I'm afraid I'm rather gun-shy.” Erik laughed softly as though at a private joke, and did not elaborate further. “Won't you sit down?” He did so himself as he spoke, reclining on one of the small sofas.

Raoul took the seat across from him.

“So, tell me about the insurance. I'm afraid my wife never remembers to tell me anything.”

“I hear wives can be absent minded.” Raoul answered lightly. “It's on your two cars, the La Salle and the Plymouth.”

The man nodded. His gaze rested on Raoul’s face, but so lightly that Raoul couldn't be sure whether the man was really displaying any interest. Remembering his script, Raoul continued. “We’d hate to see the policies lapse, Mr. Dietrichson.”

“Erik.”

“Right.” Raoul smiled. “Erik.”

He stopped, his canned speech somewhat derailed.

“Well?” Erik arched an eyebrow, the uncovered one. “Continue, Raoul de Chagny.” 

“Right. Of course, we give you….we give her….we give thirty days, but that's all we’re allowed to give, you see.”

“I suppose Antoinette has been busy.” There was a subtle curl to his mouth when he spoke his wife’s name, something about how carefully he pronounced it. Like he was worried he might call her something less pleasant by accident. Raoul liked to believe it wasn't in his nature to notice these things about strangers, but it was, unfortunately, in his line of work. “She's been taking on a few new students lately, I imagine that's distracted her.” Erik continued.

“She's a dance instructor, isn't she?” It had been in the company file.

“Yes.” Again, he did not elaborate. Again, Raoul saw no reason to press. He did not actually care about Mrs. Dietrichson, or her dance lessons, or the automobile insurance for that matter. He cared mostly about Erik Dietrichson’s curious little smile, and the way the man was now playing with the half-buttoned edge of his shirt collar. Trying to seem professional, he continued. “Well, I'm afraid I can't have the renewal signed by anyone whose name isn't on the original paperwork. So, do you think I could catch her at home some evening?”

Erik shrugged. “Probably. But she's never home much before eight.”

“Eight would be fine by me.”

“Did you say you were from the Automobile Club?”

“No, the All-Risk. Why?”

“Nettie told me that someone from the Automobile Club had been coming around-- I don't usually receive visitors myself, for...well, various reasons. Do they have a better rate?”

“If you're a member.”

He shook his head.

“Well, you’d have to join the club and pay the membership fee to start with. Now, the Automobile Club is fine. I never knock the other fellow’s merchandise…”

Mr. Dietrichson stood up, pacing across the room. He trailed his hand over the mantelpiece as absorbedly as though he was the one who didn't live here. Raoul could almost physically feel his loss of interest. “...but I can do just as well for you. I have a very attractive policy here. For instance, we’re writing a new kind of fifty percent retention feature in the collision coverage.” He hadn't really expected Erik Dietrichson to understand or care about fifty percent retention features, but the man stopped in his walk as though something in the speech had been quite significant.

“How long have you been in the insurance business, Raoul?”

“About two years.”

“And is it going well for you?” He picked up some small glass object from the mantelpiece, turning it over in his hands. Raoul noticed that he wore gloves, even though it was a very warm May afternoon.

“Oh, it's a living.”

“Do you handle just automobile insurance? Or other types as well?” He kept turning the little glass thing, whatever it was, over and over in his hands. It glinted in the light from the picture windows.

“All types. Fire, earthquake theft, public liability, group insurance…”

“Do you ever handle accident insurance?”

“Sure, on occasion. Why do you ask?”

“Well…” Erik set his trinket back down on the mantelpiece, and Raoul saw that it was an ashtray. He crossed the room again and sat down beside Raoul, taking up a confiding air. “I worry about my wife sometimes. I know teaching isn't exactly a risky job, but she makes that long drive every morning at rush hour in bad traffic, and then in the evening when it's already after dark. That's an accident waiting to happen, isn't it?”

Raoul tilted his head noncommittally.

Erik laughed, a quiet and self-deprecating chuckle that didn't suit him very well. “I suppose you think I'm a very anxious husband. But I just care so very deeply for Antoinette, and I'd like to know for certain that she could be taken care of, if anything was to happen. Do you see what I mean, Raoul?”

“I see what you mean.” Raoul nodded. This was starting to look like a good day of work for him.

“So, what sort of accident insurance could she have?”

“Enough to cover doctors’ and hospital bills. For an automobile accident, probably a hundred and twenty five a week cash benefit. And then about fifty thousand capital sum.”

“Capital sum? What's that?”

“If...well, in the case of a fatal accident.”

“Oh.” Erik’s gloved hands trembled in his lap, and Raoul considered that he might have misread the way he spoke of his wife earlier. He certainly seemed attached to her now.

“Perhaps I shouldn't have said that.”

“I suppose you have to think of everything in your business.”

“If she's a sensible woman, your wife would understand. But perhaps I should speak to her about this sometime?” Raoul suggested.

Erik nodded, rewarding Raoul with that sweet little smile. “I’d like that. Maybe you could drop by tomorrow evening, around eight-thirty? She should be home by then.”

“Will you be there?”

Erik arched an eyebrow. “I'm generally at home. But wasn't it my wife you were originally planning to speak to?”

Raoul knew he had flushed, and hoped Erik would charitably pass it off as the heat from the picture window.

“Or, were you sort of getting over that idea?” Erik murmured instead.

“Maybe I was.” Raoul said recklessly, standing. “If you know what I mean.”

Erik stood with him. “I wonder if I do know what you mean.”

Raoul stepped back, his feet not quite catching on the thick carpet. “Eight thirty tomorrow, then?”

“That is what I suggested.”

Raoul drove back out of the neighborhood as slowly as he had driven in. His mind was heavy with the scent of honeysuckle from the trees, and the memory of Erik’s laugh.


	2. Just So Long As It Kills Her

The normal clatter of activity filled the main floor of the Pacific All-Risk Insurance Company, the sound of forty typewriters and fifty people washing over Raoul as he walked in the main doors. Raoul smiled, even as his thoughts were interrupted by one of the secretaries, who popped up suddenly at his elbow. “Mr. Chagny, Daaé wants you in her office. She's been asking all afternoon after where you were.”

“Thank you, ah...” Raoul stammered, trying and failing to remember the girl’s name. He settled for shooting her a quick smile as he hurried off to Christine Daaé’s upstairs office.

He always looked forward to seeing her. Perhaps it was a bit strange to have a brass-tough woman as his best friend, but from his first day at Pacific All-Risk they had taken a shine to each other. Maybe it was because they were both immigrants-- she never mentioned Sweden, but Raoul figured she must miss it. Maybe it was because neither of them had family in the area. Maybe it was just because Christine was good company, not to mention an interesting person to watch at work.

When he got there, he could hear her voice clearly before even opening the door. As she always did when working on someone, she spoke calmly, her tone measured but loud. “Mr. Buquet, I have hundreds of these claims come through this office every week. It just will not-- Oh, hello Raoul.” Raoul had opened the door. “Come in. This is Joseph Buquet, over from Inglewood.”

The surly-looking man on the other side of her desk spared Raoul a cursory nod.

“Sure, I remember him-- I wrote the policy on his truck. How are you, Mr. Buquet?”

“Not so good. My truck burned down. Planted my foot on the starter, and the whole thing blew up right in my face.”

Alright, Raoul knew for certain where this thing was going now. He would have had some idea just by looking at Christine-- she stood up behind the desk, one hand on her hip and her head cocked dangerously.

Christine did not exactly roll her eyes, just arched an eyebrow at Raoul over Buquet’s head. “He was very lucky though, not to be hurt by a mysterious explosion at such close range. Didn't even singe his eyebrows.”

“Yeah. Lucky. Look, lady, I got my truck insured with this company, the truck blew up, and I want my money. Alright?”

Christine leaned forward slightly, and addressed Raoul in a conversational tone. “As I was just telling this gentleman when you came in, we get quite a few of these situations every week. Some of them are genuine, sure. But fraud is common enough that we have to investigate all of them. And it's lucky that we do, because some of them…” here she paused for just the right amount of time to create a dramatic effect. That girl must have been an actress in a previous life. “Well, some of them turn out to be like your claim, Mr. Buquet.”

“And what's that supposed to--”

“I'm sure it was an honest mistake.” She widened her brown eyes earnestly. “You probably didn't mean to drop a match on the pile of shavings that mysteriously appeared in the bed of your truck.”

“I don't know a thing about any shavings.” Buquet’s face had reddened, and he clenched and unclenched his meaty fists around the brim of the hat in his lap. Christine was not intimidated.

“I certainly do, after I went down to the garage yesterday and had them jack up your truck. I looked inside, and you know what I found? Not just shavings, but unmistakable traces of kerosene! The kerosene you used to burn that truck out!”

Buquet cringed visibly under her severe look.

“And, like I said, I’m sure that you didn't mean to do it. It's just that a jury might think otherwise, if we had to take you to court over this.”

She let that hang nastily in the air.

“Look,” Buquet started. “Maybe I did make a mistake--”

“Everybody makes mistakes.” Christine spoke as pleasantly as a mother to a child. “The important thing is to fix them. So, sign here.” She sat back down at last, and pushed a paper and pen across the desk.

Buquet stared down at them. “What's all this?

“It's a waver on your claim. Sign this, and you'll be an honest man again.” She stared him down across the desk.

Buquet signed.

“There. Congratulations.” Christine pulled the paper briskly towards herself once again.

“But I ain't got no more truck.” The man said piteously.

“Goodbye, Mr. Buquet.”

“Goodbye, miss.” Buquet muttered, slinging himself up out of the chair. By the door, he paused. “Twenty-six hundred bucks. That's a lot of dough where I live.”

“ _Goodbye_ , Mr. Buquet.”

The second the door had clicked shut behind him, Christine turned on Raoul. “What kind of an outfit is this, anyway? Shifty mug like that, and no one hesitated to write a policy for him, for that much money?”

“Hey, you know I butcher the beef, I don't rate it. I clipped a note to the Buquet file to have him thoroughly investigated before accepting the risk.”

“I know, I know, I'm not blaming _you_ , sweetheart. Those idiots in management, though, they'll write a policy for any shmuck just to fill up the sales sheet! And then they wonder why they need me to look at eight pounds of paperwork every day just to make sure the company turns some kind of profit!” Christine groaned, throwing herself back into the office chair, which squeaked loudly. Raoul snickered, and she glared at him. “Well, it's easy for you.”

“Alright, fine, turn over the record and let's hear the other side.”

“I'm so sick of those idiot salesman--not you--who’d write a policy for life insurance on some guy that sleeps in the same bed as-- as four rattlesnakes!”

Raoul couldn't help but burst out laughing at that.

“I'm serious! I've been doing this job for years now, and--!”

“...and you've loved every minute of it.”

Christine groaned again. “I _have_. That's the worst part. I'm almost thirty years old now, you know that? It's a good thing I don't want to marry.” She rummaged in her desk drawer and pulled out a cigarette. Predictably, she looked around for the lighter she had once again lost.

“You shouldn't smoke, Christine. It’ll ruin your teeth.” But neither of them was surprised when he lit the cigarette for her anyway.

***

The phone rang just as Raoul was settling back at his own desk. He had no way of knowing who it would be.

He knew anyway.

Sure enough, it was Erik Dietrichson's faux-cultured tones on the other end of the line. Tomorrow wouldn't work for him after all, and he wanted Raoul to come over Thursday evening instead-- would that be convenient?

It wasn't convenient, actually. Raoul had several clients lined up for that Thursday afternoon. But he couldn't help remembering the glow of those strange amber eyes, and the curve of Erik’s jawline….clients could be rescheduled.

Raoul reached for his calendar, humming softly under his breath.

***

There really was nothing that special about Erik Dietrichson, Raoul reminded himself as he cruised through the sunny Loz Feliz district once again. Raoul had been to a lot of houses, in this job, and Erik wasn't the first beautiful husband of a wealthy older woman that he’d seen. Their situation had been clear to Raoul from the moment Erik admitted that his wife handled the finances.

Frankly, the only even slightly unusual thing about their situation was that they were actually married-- and the man was married, Raoul reminded himself, so what exactly was he so excited about this visit for anyhow?

The Dietrichson property loomed up before him, saving Raoul from having to come up with an answer for his increasingly belligerent voice of reason.

He trotted up to the house, and rang the doorbell. _Let's see what the maid has to say to me this time._

But luckily, Nettie was not the one to come to the door. Instead, Erik himself swung it open, an immaculate half-smile already set into his face.

Raoul smiled back, removing his hat and running one hand through his hair as he came in. Inside, it was a sharp contrast to the bright sunshine out on the road; the house was cool, dark, and as silent as if he and Erik were the only two people in it-- even though Raoul knew, of course, that Mrs. Dietrichson must be there too. He thought that maybe the house was like this because Erik was in it. On Raoul’s previous visit, the maid had been bustling around out in the hall, opening windows and snapping cleaning rags. On that day, Erik had moved carefully through the house whenever they left the privacy of the parlor, like he was a black shadow caught in a bright light. Now, he seemed to draw shadows in behind him.

Or, maybe the house was just dimly lit because most of the curtains were drawn to keep out the heat. Maybe Raoul needed to stop being ridiculous. When he shook himself out of those thoughts, he saw Erik standing silhouetted in the doorway to the parlor, one slim hand up on the frame. “Raoul?”

“Y-yes?”

“Would you like to sit down?” Erik asked, slowly and distinctly enough that Raoul suspected he was repeating himself.

“Yes, I would. Sorry.”

“Oh, don't worry. It's the heat, it makes all of us absentminded.”

Raoul noted that, despite his professed notice of the summer weather, Erik still kept his shirt buttoned to his neck, and his sleeves rolled down to his wrists.

He followed him into the living room.

“Come sit down.” Erik gestured him over to the small sofa, and then sat down himself, startlingly close beside Raoul. “I talked to Antionette about those renewals.”

“You did?”

“Yes. She told me that we’ll renew with you-- or, rather that she@ will.” That last phrase was spoken so bitterly that Raoul turned to look at him, but the exposed half of his face was smooth and mild. Raoul figured he must have imagined the tone-change, as Erik continued more brightly. “I really thought she would be here this afternoon.”

“But she isn't?”

“No.”

“I suppose it's just us and the maid, then.” Raoul commented inanely.

“No, it's Nettie’s day off.”

“So, we’re alone.” No wonder the house was so quiet.

“I suppose we are.”

Silence for a moment, and then:

“I want to ask you something, Raoul. We were talking about accident insurance the other day, weren't we?”

“We were. Have you and your wife thought it over any more since?”

“Well, I have anyway.” Erik gave a short, embarrassed laugh. “Antionette...I won't even bother bringing it up with her again. As it turns out, she's quite superstitious about accident insurance.”

“Plenty of people are. It's a funny thing, really.”

“So, I was wondering; isn't there some way I could get a policy on her without involving her at all?”

“I don't follow.”

“That would make it easier for you too, wouldn't it? You wouldn't have to arrange another time to come over just to argue with her-- and believe me, arguing with her is not enjoyable. I may not work, but I do have a small allowance of my own. I could pay for it myself, and then nobody need ever know.”

Now, the pieces were starting to fall into place. Raoul liked to think of himself as a trusting man, but this exact sort of situation was something he'd been warned about when he first took the job.

“You see what I mean, Raoul?” Erik looked anxiously up at him, his hands fidgeting in his lap, skittering like trapped spiders. He wore gloves again, Raoul noticed absently, made out of the kind of black lace one doesn't typically see on men’s clothing. Like mourning gloves.

“Sure, I see what you mean.” He answered quietly, after a pause. It surprised Raoul how angry he was at this obvious set up. He had thought Erik was-- well, what _had_ he thought? That the man was coming on to him? “You want her to have the policy without her knowing she has it. Which would require my company not knowing she doesn't know it.”

Erik nodded. “Exactly, thank you!” He seemed as relieved as if Raoul had already agreed to the damned plan.

“And then, in this little plan, if your darling wife gets run off the highway on some dark, wet night--” Raoul rose abruptly, turning back to stand over Erik where he still sat on the sofa.

“I don't--”

“Only sometimes the accident doesn't quite make itself, does it?”

“I don't know what you mean!” Erik said, his eyes showing enough fear to make Raoul sure he knew exactly what he meant.

“Well, it doesn't have to be a car accident, does it? She could fall out of an upstairs window, or accidentally mix up the sink cleaner with her morning tonic. Any little thing like that, just so long as it kills her.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I'm not that crazy!” Raoul retorted, rather finely, he thought. “Goodbye, Mr. Dietrichson.”

Now Erik stood up, following behind Raoul as he headed for the door. “I still don't understand, Raoul, what's the matter?”

Sighing, Raoul turned back. “Look, Erik, you can't get away with it.”

“Get away with what?”

“You want to kill her, don't you?” The words dropped like stones into the water of the huge, tomb-silent house.

But Erik recovered quickly enough. “That's a horrible thing to say!”

“But that's your plan, isn't it?” Raoul shook his head. “You must have thought I was perfect for it, didn't you? A nice young man comes to your house selling accident insurance-- don't suppose you have any old wives you're tired of, would you like to exchange her for a cash refund?” He laughed wildly, aware he was making a scene but unable to make himself stop. “I must have seemed pretty stupid to you, though not quite stupid enough to believe you in the end.”

Erik stood dead-center in the cluttered parlor, with his fists balled at his sides. “I think you're rotten.”

“I think you're swell.” Raoul said, and wished he was being facetious. “Since I'm not your wife.”

Erik was nearly trembling with rage. “Get out.”

“Gladly!” Raoul shot over his shoulder, already hurrying to the door. He’d had enough of this place to last for a long lifetime.

The sound of the door slamming behind him reverberated off of Mr. Dietrichson’s shocked face.

Raoul ended up spending the afternoon at home with a bottle of beer. He wasn't usually a drinking man, but he needed something to get the floral smell of that house off the back of his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you all heard Raoul! He's definitely not getting mixed up with Erik Dietrichson again! Guess we’ll just have to pack up this story early, since nothing more is going to happen. /s


	3. Floral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this was my favorite chapter to write. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Raoul had things to do that night. He had planned to call up his brother, and see how things were going for him back in France. He had planned to finish up some paperwork after that. He had planned to make himself some dinner, at least. 

Raoul did not do any of those things. Instead, he crossed the floor, restless and febrile, feet catching on the thin carpet while his mind raced. In a way, he felt as though he hadn't walked out on that strange man at all, or as though the man had walked out with him, had followed him home and lingered there. 

Raoul knew the feeling was ridiculous. He had done the right thing by refusing to get involved in that crazy scheme from the first. And now it was over. He would probably never see Erik Dietrichson again. And that was the end of it. It was. 

Still, when his doorbell rang into the silent apartment, he moved to answer it immediately, and didn't wonder for a second who it was. 

If he was starting to get premonitions, they at least seemed to be accurate enough, because it was the man--Erik, the man’s name was Erik--who stood framed in the narrow doorway. He wore a sad, enigmatic smile, and his shoulders were speckled with water. It must have just started to rain. The cheap, dim light in the hallway made the same prosthetic he had worn earlier cast deep shadows over the bare half of his face. 

The silence stretched between them, but Erik broke it with an easy twitch of his lips. “You forgot your hat this afternoon. I thought I'd bring it over.”

He looked down. Erik’s hands were completely empty, holding only a slight tremor. 

Raoul almost smiled. “Did you.” 

He looked back up to where amber eyes were throwing off figurative sparks from amusement. “Don't you want me to bring it in?”

“Sure.” He said, without really stopping to consider the idea. “Put it on the chair.”

As Erik passed into the room, Raoul closed the door softly behind him, like he was trying not to wake up his own common sense. Something occurred to him. “How did you know where I live?” 

Erik paused for what briefly seemed like a fraction of a second too long, but when he spoke, his honey voice was guileless. “It's in the phone book.” 

Well, that could be true. Raoul didn't remember ever entering himself into the phonebook, but perhaps that was one of those things that was done for you automatically in America. 

“Do you mind if I take my coat off? It's rather wet, I'm afraid.” 

“Sure, of course.” Raoul responded. Erik arched his back slightly as he reached up to shuck off his long trench coat, his figure silhouetted perfectly in the lamplight. Raoul found himself stepping forward, and grasping the coat’s collar himself. Gently, he slid it off the other man’s shoulders, even though he didn't know quite why he chose to do so. 

“Thank you.” Erik said softly. At least nominally by chance, they stood so close that Raoul could smell his cologne. It was unusually thick, something botanical or even floral, almost like a perfume. There was something else beneath it too, mostly-but-not-entirely covered by the cologne, or the perfume, whichever it was. Raoul couldn't quite place the second scent-- it was sulphuric, and not quite familiar. He wanted to lean forward a little to try to get a better idea what it could be, but had at least that much sense left. Instead, he turned, and laid the coat over the back of his chair. “Your wife out tonight, I assume?”

“Long Beach, meeting with a few colleagues from the Garnier’s sister school. She phoned that she’d be late. About nine-thirty.” Erik spoke in that same soft tone, still facing the window. A teasing lilt entered his voice. “You know, I think it's about time you said you're glad to see me.” 

Raoul ignored the overture. “I knew you wouldn't leave it like that.”

“Like what?” Erik said as though he honestly didn't know.

“Like it was this afternoon.” Raoul didn't elaborate, because he didn't need to. He knew by now why Mr. Dietrichson must have come here.

Erik turned to him, and they were standing strangely close once more. “I must have said something that gave you a terribly wrong impression earlier. You must surely see that.” He stepped forward so that his breath hit Raoul’s cheek. “I hope you never think anything like that about me, Raoul.” He said with a strange little pause before Raoul’s name.

With the sudden feeling of having lost the script for whatever this little interaction was, Raoul stepped back to put a bit of distance between them. “Okay.”

“No, it's not okay.” Erik grabbed his wrist. He was gentle and it didn't hurt, but Raoul realized that there was physical strength behind all the affected gestures and anxious mannerisms. “Not if you don't believe me.” His eyes were intense.

“W-what do you want me to do?” He stammered, unsettled.

Erik released his arm abruptly crossing over to settle down on the sofa. He propped one pointed elbow on the couch arm, his hand up by his throat. He traced restlessly over the lines of his shirt collar. “I want you to be nice to me. Like you were when you first came over to the house.” His voice was playfully petulant as he referenced their first meeting, but his eyes read like a challenge.

Raoul flushed, remembering his too-careless, too-obvious attraction that day. “It can't be like the first time. Not after today.”

“Nothing happened today.” Erik countered.

“I'd like to keep it that way.”

A shadow crossed Erik’s face--well, what could be seen of it.

“What's the matter?” 

“I feel as though she's watching me. Antoinette. Not that she cares about me, not anymore. But it's like she wants me caged up anyway. She doesn't even like me to leave the house-- she says that it's to protect me, but she's lying. I feel so trapped with her sometimes I can't breathe…” Erik trailed off with a vague gesture.

“Well, she’s out in Long Beach, isn't she?” Raoul said, practically enough. 

Erik shook his head, though it didn't seem to be in denial of anything. “I shouldn't have come.” 

“Maybe you shouldn't have.” 

Erik rose, and stood facing Raoul. “Do you want me to go?” 

“If you want to.” He tried to keep his voice perfectly emotionless.

“Right now?” Erik said, more quietly. 

Raoul would never really be able to remember which of them had taken a step forward, but they stood closer now. “Sure, right now.”

The damned indecipherable man started to step past him towards the door, and that was when Raoul realized that he had already caught Erik by his flimsy wrist, and then his hands were on Erik’s waist without Raoul knowing how that had happened, and then they were kissing.

Erik’s lips were cool and slightly rough against his, but it wasn't remotely unpleasant. The edge of the prosthetic dug into the soft flesh of Raoul’s cheek, like a reminder of something he couldn't understand. He pulled back after a moment, but didn't remove his hands, just slid them up so that they rested against Erik’s back. The taller man leaned forward to rest his chin on Raoul’s head, and Raoul could feel Erik’s pulse vibrating rabbit-quick in his throat. “How were you going to do it?” He said, again without needing to specify, kill your wife.

Erik didn't answer. Raoul was glad for that.

“That cologne you’re wearing. What's the name of it?” He could at least get the answer to his earlier curiosity.

“I don't remember, something French. I bought it down at Ensenada.”

 _So clearly Mrs. Dietrichson doesn't exactly keep you chained to a wall in the cellar after all_ , Raoul couldn't help but think. “I feel as though I should have some French wine to offer you, to go with that. But I'm afraid I only have bourbon.” 

“Bourbon’s fine.” 

They moved to the kitchen, Erik leaning over the counter and watching as Raoul fixed glasses. 

“You know,” Raoul started conversationally, “about six months ago a guy slipped on the soap in his bathtub and knocked himself cold and drowned. Only, he had accident insurance. So they had an autopsy, and she didn't get away with it.”

“Who?” Asked Erik, examining the patterns in the marbled Formica counter, and clearly knowing exactly who.

Raoul answered anyway. “His wife. It was all a terrible tragedy, of course. And now she’ll be put away for three to ten years for manslaughter, and it would be much longer than that if she hadn't taken a plea. Or at least that's what I heard.” He tacked that's hastily on to the end, since the whole thing was more office gossip than anything else. He didn't normally go in for that, but perhaps a true story would finally manage to etch the severity of the situation into this man’s brain. He slid one of the now-full glasses across the counter.

Erik took it with a faraway look in his eyes. “Perhaps it was worth it to her.” Before Raoul could think of how to answer that, Erik had turned, holding the glass and stepping out to survey the living room. “Pretty nice place. Does someone take care of this for you?”

“I have a cleaning girl who comes in twice a week. And I can manage washing the occasional plate.” Raoul said, a little more defensively than was perhaps needed. Did he really come off as that spoiled?

“You can manage your own breakfast in the morning _too_ , then?” He said just a bit mockingly.

“Once in a while I squeeze a grapefruit. The rest I can get at the corner drugstore.”  
He took a seat at the corner of the couch again, staring out the window, and Raoul sat down next to him. The ice hissed in their glasses.

By the time Erik spoke again, it had been long enough that Raoul had almost lost track of where they'd been in the conversation. “It sounds wonderful. Just strangers beside you, strangers who don't even notice you. No one staring…” he trailed off, then spoke again with a harsher edge to his tone. “You don't have to sit across the table and smile at her and that daughter every morning of your damned life.” 

“What daughter?” Then Raoul remembered-- the photographs, that little dark-skinned girl with the knife-edge smile. “Oh, that little girl on the piano?” 

“Meg, or I suppose her real name is Marguerite. She lives with us, and Antoinette thinks a lot more of her than she does of me.”

Raoul didn't see how Erik had the high ground to complain of what his wife thought of him, since he had been planning how to murder her for money, but he decided not to say that. “Why did you marry her?”

“Can I be straight with you?”

Raoul nodded.

“The money, partly. Her first husband was wealthy, although there's little enough of that left now that she's sunk all she can into the Garnier. And I…I wanted a home. I never really had that before. Antoinette seemed willing to give me that.”

“And now you hate her.”

“Yes, Raoul. She's terrible to me, I can't do anything without her yelling at me. She won't let me go anywhere. She wants to keep me locked up like some mad wife of hers, she's always been mean to me. Even her life insurance only goes to that daughter of hers.”

“Nothing for you at all?” Raoul said. It seemed unlikely; usually almost everything a woman had was placed in care of her husband with life insurance policies.

But Erik shook his head. “No. And nothing is just what I'm worth to her.”

“So you lie awake at night, and listen to her breathing, and you get ideas.”

“I don't want to kill her, Raoul, I don't want to kill anyone.”

He swallowed, but made himself say it. “Only sometimes, you wish she was dead.”  
“Perhaps I do.” Erik said in a tone Raoul couldn't read. With the bare side of his face turned away, Raoul couldn't see his expression.

“And you wish it was an accident, and you had that insurance policy. For fifty thousand dollars.”

“Perhaps that too.” 

Raoul threw the words out into the room, just to see how they’d sound. “And you want a nice insurance man to help you.”

“I want _you_ to help me.” He laid one hand on Raoul’s knee, speaking earnestly now. “I want out of that house, and I want to be around someone who understands me, not a wife I can barely speak to. And I want to never have to be afraid over money again. Is that so wrong?”

In that moment, it almost didn't seem to be. But… “But it is.”

Erik’s voice altered, smoothened even more, pouring itself out into the awaiting silence. “You know, if I was in the insurance business, I think it might drive me crazy. The way you talked about fraud earlier, you made it sound as though none of you can sleep for trying to figure out the tricks people might pull on you. Tell me, is it like being the guy behind the roulette wheel? Always watching the customers to make sure they don't crook the house. And then one night, maybe you start thinking how you could crook the house yourself."

Raoul stood abruptly, nearly spilling the bourbon from his still-full glass. “I'm not listening to this, it's wrong.” He stalked off, back to the kitchen, but Erik followed him, still speaking in that terrible, level voice. Raoul tried to tell himself he wasn't listening. 

“And you could do it smart, because you've got the wheel right under your hands. And you know every notch in it by heart. You figure that all you need is a plant out front, a shill to put down the bet. And suddenly the doorbell rings, and the whole setup is right there in your living room.” Raoul turned with indignation to face him, realizing too late that Erik had backed him against the sink and was now murmuring into his ear. “Can you really say you've never thought about it? It's alright, what kind of man wouldn't? You can get away with it, too. _We_ can get away with it.”

Raoul shook his head helplessly, as long fingers tangled into his hair.

“Help me, Raoul.” Suddenly he laughed, wildly, voice shaking. “I don't care if they do hang me!” 

“They won't.” Raoul whispered. His head spun, but he didn't feel guilty.

“It would be better than going on this way!” 

“No, I mean, you're not going to hang, because--” he swallowed. “Because I'm going to help you. We’ll do this the smart way, and I'll take care of you.” 

Erik exhaled slowly. “You will. You will.” 

“But we’ll have to do this the smart way.” He gripped Erik’s arm, making the other  
man look at him. “No slip-ups. Nothing sloppy. Nothing weak. If I'm going to do this, if we’re going to do this, it has to be perfect.”

Erik nodded, eyes fixed almost unnervingly on Raoul’s face. 

Since it was the least of the immoral acts he had contemplated that night, Raoul leaned up and kissed him. 

The gesture was fast and hard on both sides, intense the way a slap in the face is intense. The way a gunshot is intense. It left Raoul’s heart racing. 

“And now I need to leave. It's almost nine.”

Raoul nodded, blankly.

“I'll call you tomorrow, alright? From a pay phone, not from my house, of course.”

Raoul nodded again. “And watch what you do, every single minute. We’ll both have to do that from this point on. It's got to be perfect, you understand? Straight down the line.” 

With one hand on the door frame, Erik smiled that same enigmatic smile. “Straight down the line.” 

And then he was gone.

It wouldn't be until weeks later that Raoul would be able to place the second scent that lingered just under that terribly floral perfume. 

It was the smell of death.


	4. Seemingly Quite Charitable

Thinking back later on the next week after that evening, Raoul would barely remember it. The whole span of time was just one long blur of anxious waiting, punctuated by two brief phone calls to Erik, from a payphone of course. 

On the phone, both men were tense and hurried, running through The Plan rapid-fire, over and over, until either of them could have been woken from a dead sleep to recite it flawlessly-- although of course, neither of them would have told anyone.

The first step was to actually get the insurance policy signed. Raoul spent days going over every legal detail in the book, and there was no way to get the policy without Mrs. Dietrichson signing the document in her own hand. 

When he told Erik that, the other man had given a short, sharp sigh, and Raoul could almost hear his hands start fidgeting over the phone line. “Well, that won't do. Are you sure? I'm her husband, it seems as though I should be able to do this for her.”

“Yes, but you can't. Believe me, I checked. The laws are slightly foggier about couple’s insurance, but even there….” Raoul shook his head, even though he knew Erik couldn't see it. “Maybe that could work, legally speaking. But it would look very suspicious later if the matter is investigated.”

“And we both know it will be. Alright, maybe we can trick her into signing it, perhaps with some sleight of hand trick. It'll have to be very simple, I imagine, because you'll need to do it.”

“Can't you? You'll be there, after all.” That point had already been agreed on-- Erik hadn't been willing to sit any part of this process out.

“No. That woman knows I have a talent for this sort of trick, and now she doesn't trust anything I've touched.” 

Raoul winced at the unfairness. The more Erik told him about his marriage, the more--well, maybe not exactly justified, but the more understandable his motivations seemed. “I'm sorry for that.”

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.” The nicknames had been a recent and very welcome development. “After all, you'll have me out of here soon enough, won't you?”

“Yes. Of course.” Raoul smiled into the phone. “But what will we do about the signature?”

“I've been thinking about that, and I believe I have a solution.”

“Fast worker.”

“Thank you, darling. Anyway, I think all you’ll have to do is slide the auto insurance form over the accident insurance one, covering everything on that form except the signature line, and then just have her sign both. Tell her you need a duplicate for your files-- that's something insurance people do, isn't it, Raoul?”

“Not usually, since we take the original copy with us anyway. But it sounds plausible. I think that could work.”

“I do too. Oh, Raoul, do you think it's terribly wrong of me to be a little excited?” His voice was breathless over the line, like a teenage girl phoning her sweetheart.  
“I really don't know, Erik.” He answered honestly. “But you know, the other thing is, we’ll need a witness.” 

“For the signing?”

“For me giving her the pitch, at least. Could you bring someone in, invite company over or something? Or call that maid of yours into the room?”

“I’ve already thought of someone.” A strange, malicious sort of amusement fluttered just under Erik’s voice, but they had already been talking so long (a risk, when each call meant Erik mysteriously absent from the house) that Raoul didn't pursue it. 

 

***

 

That turned out to be a mistake when Raoul walked into the Dietrichsons’ living room   
that Thursday night, and found out who Erik had selected as the witness: Antoinette Dietrichson’s sixteen year old daughter, Meg. 

It wasn't that there was anything concretely wrong about Erik choosing her. It was just that it felt wrong to have the girl sitting just across the room, swinging her legs restlessly and playing Chinese checkers with Erik while her mother quite literally signed her own death warrant. Raoul walked into the room, saw Meg sitting there, and flicked his gaze over to Erik. He raised his eyebrows as much as he dared: what the hell?

Erik just smiled back, pleasant and bland, and leaned forward to slot one of his pieces farther across the board. “Your move, Meg.”

She considered the game, biting her lip and sneaking a quick glance back up at Raoul, who gave up and turned to greet Mrs. Dietrichson.

Although the photo of her he had seen before bore a near-perfect resemblance, seeing Antoinette Dietrichson (née Giry) in person was still surprising. Something about Erik’s seemingly quite charitable descriptions had made Raoul picture her as ugly and wizened, a gray-haired matriarch towering over the room. But that description did not fit the gentlewoman lounging in an armchair on the far side of the Dietrichsons’ parlor, and surveying Raoul with the same dark, intelligent eyes as her daughter. She was a small woman, not so much slight as compactly built, with elegant posture that spoke clearly of her profession as a dance instructor. 

As Raoul crossed the room to meet her, she spoke. Her voice was hoarse, and sharp. “So, you're Raoul de Chagny, the salesman I've heard so much about.”

“Have you, ma’am?” Raoul offered his most charming smile, and tried not to feel as though he was meeting his girlfriend’s mother. 

“Or not you so much as insurance in general. For a solid week earlier this month, all my husband would talk to me about was accident insurance. Luckily, he seems to have dropped that silly idea.”

“Well, ‘if we bought all the insurance they can think up, we’d stay broke paying for it all,’ right, honey?” Erik interjected with an air of quoting someone, assumedly his wife, with less than flattering intentions. 

But Antoinette just arched her eyebrows, and held her husband’s gaze until his smirk faltered, and he turned back to the checkerboard. “So. At any rate.” Antoinette turned back to an already deeply uncomfortable Raoul. “You came here for the auto insurance, didn't you?”

“Right, yes. Your coverage runs out next week, and it would be a shame to see the policies lapse just because of one unsigned form. After all--”

Antoinette held up one elegant hand. “That's fine, Mr. Chagny. Don’t strain yourself, I have no reluctance to renew the policies.”

“Oh. Well, good.” Raoul said, trying not to seem thrown off. He had counted on at least a few minutes of salesmanship, an opportunity to casually shuffle the papers in his hand so that the accident form was on the bottom. There didn't seem to be time for that now-- Mrs. Dietrichson had already picked up a pen from the side-table, and was waiting impatiently.

Knowing he shouldn't, he glanced over at Erik, whose hands had stilled on the checkerboard. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Mrs. Dietrichson’s eyebrows began to lift again.

Raoul cleared his threat just to break the silence, and recovered his lines as best as he could. “Still, there's, uh, something else you might be interested in hearing about, Mrs. Dietrichson.”

She waited.

“We at Pacific All-Risk have been making a few changes to our accident coverage lately, and we’ve got a nice little package put together.”

“Well, that's very nice for you.” Mrs. Dietrichson responded quellingly. “However, my profession is hardly high-risk. I am a dance instructor.”

“Still, you can't be too careful, ma’am.” Raoul started in again, falling back on a well-worn spiel from the company handbook. “I always say that insurance is like a hot water bottle. It might look a bit useless and silly hanging there on its hook, but when you get a stomachache in the middle of the night, it sure comes in handy.”

She clicked her tongue. “Now you want to sell me a hot water bottle.” 

Raoul was saved from having to find an answer for that by Meg Giry’s impatient sigh. The girl tilted one skinny wrist, and examined her watch ostentatiously. “Erik, do you mind if we don't finish this game? It bores me stiff.”

“Do you have other plans?” Erik asked. Mrs. Dietrichson clicked her tongue again, but said nothing.

Meg slung herself down from the chair she had been perched on. “Yes, I have. Mother, may I please go now?”

“Go where, and with who?” Her voice was just as dry as her daughter’s was honey-coated. 

“Oh, just Cecile Jammes. We’re going roller skating.”

“Cecile Jammes, that little fat girl from the school? And here I thought you might be meeting Lisa Sorelli.” Erik commented seemingly off-hand, idly examining the buttons at his shirt cuff for smudges.

Mrs. Dietrichson’s eyes narrowed at her husband’s words. “It had better be Cecile Jammes, not that Sorelli woman, Miss Marguerite Dietrichson.” 

“Mother, I told you,” Meg began, with the air of one who has suffered the most dreadful of aspersions cast on her spotless dignity, “I am meeting Cecile Jammes. We are going roller skating. I'm meeting her at the corner of Vermont and Franklin-- the west corner, in case you're interested. And I'm late already, if you don't mind. I hope that's all quite clear.” She tossed her head finely, and started for the door, throwing a few ‘good night’s carelessly over one shoulder.

Almost before the door swung shut behind her, Erik gave a quiet laugh. “Your daughter’s a great little fighter for her weight.”

His wife sniffed, unamused. “I wonder who she learned that attitude from.”

“I think perhaps it was inherited.” Erik retorted without missing a beat-- this had the sound of an exchange they'd had before.

Raoul cleared his throat again, wondering if they remembered he was still in the room. 

“Oh, don't you start in on me with the accident insurance again. I'm not buying any.” Antoinette snapped. 

“Well, that's alright, Mrs. Dietrichson. You can't blame a guy for trying. At any rate,   
sign here.” Raoul slid the papers over to her.

“And what is this?”

“The application for your auto renewals, ma’am. This way, you’ll be covered until the new policies come through.” 

“And when will that be?” She asked, reaching for her pen.

“The middle of next week, I'd say.”

“Good. Just as long as I'm covered when I drive up North.” She fixed her eyes on Raoul as though she was waiting for him to ask, so he did. “Going to San Francisco?”  
“Palo Alto, Mr. Chagny, Palo Alto.”

“She goes to her class reunion every single year.” Erik broke in, still studying his buttons.

“And what's wrong with that?” Mrs. Dietrichson snapped. 

“Oh, nothing. I suppose _one_ of us has to be able to leave the house every now and then.”

“Erik, please!” It was the first time Raoul had heard her say her husband’s name, and it sounded almost wrong in her mouth. “We've had this discussion.”

“We certainly have, Antoinette.” He cut his eyes at Raoul as soon as his wife wasn't looking, and Raoul saw his cue.

“Ma’am--”

“Alright!” She cut him off, red spots of anger riding high on her cheeks. “Where do I sign?”

“Here, at the bottom. And…” 

Erik audibly sucked in a breath, but between anger and distraction, his wife clearly didn't notice. 

“And, both copies, please.” Pulse beating down into his fingertips, Raoul carefully slid the top paper up just enough to reveal the second signature line. 

“Why should I sign twice?”

“One is the agent’s copy.” Raoul recited his line. “I need a duplicate for my files.”

“Duplicates, triplicates…” But she signed.

Raoul heard Erik let out his breath in a soft sigh, barely audible over the scratching of the pen. For a moment, Raoul felt as though it was his life, not Antoinette's, hanging in the air of the Dietrichsons’ living room. For a moment, he wanted to grab the pen away from her, wanted to stop her, wanted to end this. 

He didn't move. But maybe something showed briefly on his face, because he felt Erik’s eyes on him for the rest of the evening.

“No hurry about the check. I can pick it up some morning.”

“And how much will that be, exactly?” She stood, smoothing her simple gray dress. 

“One forty seven, ma’am.” He stood with her. “I guess that's enough insurance for one night. Thank you for having me.”

“Our pleasure, Mr. Chagny.” Erik came over to stand by him. “Why don't I walk you out?”

“Thanks. Good night, Mrs. Dietrichson.”

She nodded at him, then turned to her husband. “Erik, bring me some soda when you come up, alright?”

“Certainly, Antoinette.” Erik’s voice was smooth and unworried, and he led the way out into the foyer. There, he stopped Raoul with a hand on his arm, and mouthed _wait._

Raoul waited, and they heard Mrs. Dietrichson’s short footsteps tapping up the stairs, presumably to get ready for bed. Somewhere on the second floor, a door closed loudly. Erik turned to Raoul, clutching his arm. “Was that alright, Raoul?”

“Sure.” Raoul chose not to mention his brief moment of indecision.

“She signed it, didn't she?”

“You saw her do it.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “ Yes, of course. Oh, Raoul…!” Wordlessly, Erik clutched his arm tightly, almost painfully.

“Are you alright?”

“I'm relieved.” He could hear the smile, the warmth in Erik’s voice. “You're setting me free, darling.” 

The glow of those words followed Raoul all the way to his car-- where it dissipated into confusion, and fear. Through the darkness of the descending spring night, Raoul could see a shadowy figure sitting in the passenger side.

There was someone waiting for him in his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the Giry women so much.


	5. Going My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is so short-- there was originally going to be a second scene, but then that scene got so much longer and more complicated than I expected, and, well, it just didn't seem ready to post yet. So, I figured I would just post the scene I did have. Hope you enjoy it!

Raoul slowly pressed down on the door handle, swinging it open and leaning across to see his visitor. 

“Hello, Mr. Chagny.” It was Meg Dietrichson, her voice illegibly calm. “I've been waiting for you.”

“Something the matter?”

“I don't know. No. No, nothing’s the matter. I just hoped you could give me a ride down, if you're going my way?” 

“And which way would that be?” Raoul asked, hedging. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to make small talk with a teenage girl he was planning to leave an orphan within weeks.

“Down the hill. Down Vermont.”

“Oh, right, Vermont and Franklin.” It was on his way. “Wear your seatbelt.”

She bounced once in her seat, the leather squeaking. “Thank you! That's very sweet, Mr. Chagny!"

“No trouble.” He said, starting the car and resigning himself to the situation. “So, roller skating. You like roller skating?”

Her lips twitched like she was suppressing a smirk. “I can take it or leave it.”

Raoul sighed, understanding. “And tonight you're leaving it?” 

After an informatively long pause: “Yes. Yes, I am. But you see…” she wiggled in her seat, turning ungracefully to face him and taking up a confiding air. “...you see, Mr. Chagny, I'm having a pretty tough time at home. My mother doesn't understand anything@, and Erik hates me.”

“Well, that does sound pretty tough, Miss Dietrichson. But I still don't feel right about dropping you off, when your parents won't know where you are. What if I just took you home, and you told your parents that friend of yours was sick, and no one said anything more about it?”

“But I promised to meet her!” Meg said indignantly. 

“You just said that you weren't actually meeting her.”

“No, not Cecile Jammes, Lisa Sorelli. She'll be waiting for me! And anyway, I am meeting her at Vermont and Franklin, so it isn't _much_ of a lie.”

Something about the logic there seemed bad, but Raoul didn't really want to spend the night arguing with her. “I don't know, Miss Dietrichson."

“Lisa’s not a bad girl, you know. She used to go to mother’s school--that's how I met her--and she was really talented! She was going to move to New York, and dance on Broadway. She could have, too! But then she had some money trouble, and had to drop out. She lost her job as an usher at a theater, too, for talking back.” Meg laughed softly, affectionately. “She's so hot-headed.”

Well, that wasn't reassuring. “This really doesn't seem like a good idea.”

“But it's not like I'm going downtown to meet a boyfriend; it's just another girl! And she can protect us, too, if there's any trouble.” Meg shook her head. “My mother doesn't want me to see her, but she's just not being fair. It's not Lisa’s fault that she’s had a hard life.”

“Well, I suppose it'll all straighten out in the end.” Raoul said vaguely, turning onto Vermont St. despite his better judgement.

Meg nodded seriously. “Yes, I do hope so.” She glanced out the window. “Oh, this is the corner!”

Raoul stopped the car, and looked out. A tall, slim young woman was silhouetted in the streetlight, with one foot in high stilettos kicked up and back against the lamppost. She looked to be about twenty years old, vaguely Italian, and definitely trouble.  
Meg stared out at her friend, a quiet smile softening the sharp angles of her face. “She needs a haircut, doesn't she?   
Sometimes, I almost don't know why I--” she cut herself off with a laugh, and leaned over Raoul to honk the horn. “Lisa! Over here, Lisa!”

Lisa Sorelli pushed off of the lamppost and sauntered over to the car, tossing waves of spray-stiffened black hair carelessly out of her face. Raoul knew that if he had a daughter, he would never let her befriend someone who looked like that. 

He leaned over and opened Meg’s door for her. 

“This is Mr. Chagny, Lisa.”

“Hello, Lisa.” Raoul nodded at her.

Lisa crossed her arms, bellicose from the first word onwards. “The _name_ is Sorelli. Meg, let’s go.” 

“Lisa, please. Mr. Chagny gave me a ride over from the house-- he's been very sweet.”

“I don't want to know if he was sweet or not. I want to go, before we’re late to that show you wanted to see so bad.’”

Meg pouted at her. “What's the matter with you? He's a friend.”

“I don't have any friends. And when I do, I like to pick them myself.” Sorelli retorted, with the air of someone who doesn't mind whether sounding tough is the same thing as sounding intelligent.

“Lisa…” 

“Look, sweetheart,” Raoul intervened. “She needed a ride, so I gave her one. Is that really worth getting tough about?

“Don't call me sweetheart. Meg, are you coming or not?”

“Of course I'm coming. Don't mind her, Mr. Chagny.” Meg swung herself out of the car, and joined Lisa Sorelli as she strode off down the pavement. “Thank you very much for the ride.”

As they walked away, off towards the heart of downtown, Lisa slung an arm around Meg’s waist, and hooked a thumb into the belt loop of the smaller girl’s skirt in a way that seemed decidedly un-platonic. 

In the car, Raoul raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. He certainly had no room to judge on that front. Anyway, Meg seemed like a nice kid, and as for Sorelli…well, maybe she was a little better than she looked. 

Raoul put the strange couple out of his mind easily enough. He didn't really want to think about Meg Dietrichson at all, not with what he knew was going to happen in her life soon. And at any rate, he had other things to consider. There were still a few plans he had to set in place, and Erik would need to be in on them.


	6. That Same Dark Street

The grocery store lights burned on the back of Raoul’s neck, and he hoped he wasn't noticeably sweating as he moved from one aisle to the next. It was the middle of a weekday, so the store wasn’t crowded, but he had still passed a couple of other shoppers on his way through. Each time, he had tried not to glance up and see if any of them were watching him, but each time he couldn't help it. He knew there was nothing suspicious about going grocery shopping, but what if someone realized he wasn't actually just going grocery shopping?

Erik had sworn that doing this wouldn’t carry any risk, and on the phone, with his reassuring voice speaking directly into Raoul’s ear, Raoul had believed him. It was the simplest possible way for them to meet and talk, since they couldn't keep making calls to each other-- Erik insisted that Antoinette would notice and suspect if the phone bill was any higher than normal. Going to the grocery store was far less suspicious; Raoul was to be there every day at eleven o’clock, and if Erik had anything urgent to talk about, he'd meet him there. 

And as Raoul turned the corner, there he was. Erik lingered in the soap section, examining a can of cleaning powder with avid interest. Raoul passed directly by him, and paused at his side. 

“Erik.”

“Hush, speak quietly, and don't look at me.” He ordered in a low murmur, barely moving his lips. 

Obediently, Raoul turned, and stared at a display of sponges. “I'm glad you're here, I have something to give you.” He told the scrubbing pads. “I have the papers for the accident policy, and the check too. I went down to collect it this morning, and everything went great. She thought it was for the auto insurance, and it was just made out to the company, so…” He shrugged, before remembering that Erik couldn't see. “The check could have been for anything.” 

“I'm so glad that worked. So it's done? Everything’s ready?”

“No, but all that's left is for you to send the check for the actual auto insurance, and that checks out just fine, since one of the cars is yours.”

“That's good, only….” Erik paused apprehensively, and Raoul just barely resisted the urge to turn around and look at him. “Only there's been a complication.”

“A compli--!”

“Don't lose your head, and _do not raise your voice_.” Erik cut him off, his own voice low and firm. “I'll figure it out, just stay calm.”

“What kind of complication?”

“Antoinette outdid herself a bit too well, during a demonstration for one of her classes. She broke her ankle, and she isn't supposed to put weight on it for the next six weeks. She's thinking about skipping the trip because of it.”

“Skipping the--”

Erik broke in again, keeping his voice pointedly level. “She’ll change her mind. Believe me, I can _easily_ persuade her to want to get away from me for a week. The only difference this makes is that her foot is in a bandage wrap, and you’ll need to bring a matching one for me to wear the night of.”

“Do you know how to wrap one?”

“Yes, of course. So, alright?”

“Alright.”

“You're not getting second thoughts on me, are you, baby?”

“On you? Never.” Raoul hesitated. “On the plan…”

“Raoul.” Erik said, almost gently. “It is far too late for either of us to back out.”

“I'm not backing out.” Raoul mumbled. “I just…”

“I know you're not, and that's good, because I don't know what I'd do if I was on my own!”

“Well, you're not.” Was all Raoul could think to say. 

“I know, darling.” His voice filled with warmth. “I know, I just get so nervous sometimes--”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--”

“It's alright, Raoul. I do trust you.” Erik laughed softly. “I sort of have to, don't I? But all this will be over soon, and then it'll be just the two of us. That's what we have to remember.” 

“I can't wait, Erik.”

“Neither can I.” Without warning, Erik brushed past him, leaving that strange perfume of his lingering in the canned air of the supermarket. As he passed, he murmured in Raoul’s ear: “Goodbye, baby. I'm thinking of you every minute.”

Raoul waited a few minutes before following him to the checkout, just as Erik had instructed him before. Just as the plan required him to. 

Everything, Raoul told himself, will be fine. Everything will be just _fine_. 

 

***

 

“You're the top man, Raoul.” 

“What?” Raoul looked up from his desk, frowning in puzzlement at Christine Daaé, who stood leaning on the doorframe at the entrance to his office. 

“I just came from the Norton’s office. The semi-annual sales records are out, and you--” she pointed at him with the packet of papers that she held. “--topped the list. Second time in a row!” She came in, kicking the door shut behind her. “I wanted to come and be the first to tell you congratulations.” 

“Thanks.” Raoul smiled at her. “That's great.”

Christine flopped down onto the chair across from him, hooking her ankles around the chair legs and leaning forward. “Last year when you found out, you practically did cartwheels.”

“Sure, it was exciting. Still is.” Raoul tried to sound excited. 

“You don't sound excited.”

He shrugged. “Well, I am.”

“Raoul.” Her voice softened a little. For her, that just meant shifting her tone from a drill bit to a common nail, but he appreciated the effort nonetheless. “What's been going on with you? You never work late anymore, you don't care about topping the list when you practically gave blood to do it last year, and it's been a week since the last time you came over to steal one of my cigarettes.” As if to demonstrate, she pulled one out of the case, and worried it between her two fingers. 

Raoul gave her a light automatically, mind racing as he tried to think of some explanation. Had he really been so absent lately? “Christine, nothing’s going on. I don't know what you're talking about.” 

It sounded stiff even to his own ears, and she had narrowed her eyes before he finished his sentence. 

Luckily, the phone rang just as she was opening her mouth to speak. Christine huffed a sigh, and grabbed the receiver. “Pacific All-Risk. Oh. It's for you.” Directing the last part at Raoul.

“Well, it is my office.” He pointed out, and reached for the receiver.

“I'm not finished with you.” But she handed it to him.

“This is Raoul de Chagny, with Pacific All-Risk.” 

It was Erik on the line.

“Sweetheart,” he said. “I know I shouldn't call you here, but I had to tell you-- wait, are you with someone?”

Christine hadn't moved from her chair.

“Yes. Can we talk later, E...llen, Ellen?”

“No, it's really can't wait. I had to tell you-- it's worked out. The doctor got Antoinette up and walking on crutches, and the trip’s back on! Just the way we wanted it, and with the crutches it's even better, isn't it? I think it makes the story more believable, don't you?”

“One hundred percent better. Hold the line a minute.” Covering the receiver with his hand, he turned to Christine. “Can I join you in my office later?”

She looked oddly amused. “I'll wait. Just tell your Ellen not to take too long.”

He didn't bother arguing, and turned back to the phone. “Go on.”

“It's the ten-fifteen train from Glendale, tonight. I'm driving her. And you’ll meet us there, on that same dark street?” He asked, almost tenderly. 

“Yeah, for sure.”

“The signal is three honks on the horn, and _don't_ forget to bring the bandage.” Erik reminded him. Raoul could hear his breath fluttering a little through the phone.

“I remember.” He said, accidentally so quiet and serious that he worried Christine would notice. “I'm sure to meet you there.”

“This is it, Raoul. I'm shaking like a leaf!” He believed him. “I know we won't be able to talk again, not for a while, but it's straight down the line for us both now. I love you, darling. Goodbye.”

The line went dead in Raoul’s hand.

“Alright, goodbye Ellen.” Raoul said into the faint dial tone, as soon as he could make himself speak again. “Good to talk to you.” He set the phone back into its cradle. “Sorry about that, Christine.”

“Oh, I don't mind, sweetheart. So...you've got a girl.” She was smiling now.

“I've got a-- oh. Ah, yes, I do.” 

She seemed to take his stammering as sheepishness, not an outright lie-- well, it was mostly a lie. “I have to say that's a relief.”

“Why?”

“ _That’s_ the kind of distraction from work you should be having.” She told him, laying a hand on his arm. “Really, Raoul, I'm glad that's all this is-- though you could have told me! What, did you think I'd be jealous or something?”

“No,” he laughed and thought fast, “it just wasn't serious yet.”

“And now…?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “We are.” It was, after all, true. 

“Well, later you're going to tell me about this girl, alright, sweetheart? But right now I've got to get back to my office, before someone sees how long I've been away.” She put her cigarette out in his ashtray.

“Sure, you can grill me about Ellen later.”

“Oh, I will. And, Raoul? You could have just told me you had a girl. For a while I wondered if you had gotten mixed up in something!” Her own laugh chased her out the door, and as soon as it shut behind her, Raoul buried his head in his hands. 

But Erik had been right, he knew. It was too late to back out now. 

Straight down the line.


	7. Are You With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the plot speeds up a little!! I’m excited! 
> 
> Also, the tags have been updated, including a new warning. Please read them!

Raoul could feel the car floor thrumming beneath his feet and hands, where he crouched under the backseat. The air smelled like stale cigarettes and dust, and he would be embarrassed at the indignity of the situation if he wasn't so distracted by the thought of was to come next.

As if to remind him of that, Mrs. Dietrichson’s voice floated back from the front seat. “Stop it, Erik.”

“I'm not doing anything, my dear Antoinette.”

“You're twenty miles above the speed limit, and you know it. Listen, no one takes their spouse along to a class reunion, and you wouldn't want to go anyway. Don't act like I've slighted you.”

“Mrs. Tucker went along with her husband last year, didn't she?”

“And she sat in the lobby and sulked the whole time, because she didn't know anyone. Anyway, with how you react to crowds, we both know you'd refuse to go even if I asked you to.”

“That's very convenient for you, isn't it?”

Mrs. Dietrichson let out a sharp sigh. “Maybe it is, actually. Maybe it'll be a relief to get away from your ridiculousness for a few days-- you try so hard to make me lose patience with you, and then act like it’s a betrayal on my part if you succeed! Now, that's enough. Slow the car down, follow the speed limit, and give me some goddamn _peace_.”

Her voice rang through the smallness of the car and the silence stretched, broken only by the thrum of the sedan’s engine. Then, Erik spoke, his own voice icy calm. “Well, honey, as long as you have a good time.”

“I won't be doing much dancing, anyway.” She said dryly.

“Just remember what the doctor said: if you're not careful, you could end up with a shorter leg. Then you could break the other one to match!” His tone was just a bit too jeering to be kind.

Antoinette sighed again. “Alright, Erik.”

“I guess it must make you pretty happy to get away from me.”

“Erik, that's--”

He cut her off with three short blasts on the horn.

It was the signal. Raoul scrambled to get up from under the backseat, hands clumsy from being so long motionless.

“What was that for? What’re you--”

She never got any farther than that. Raoul finally brought his arms up, one over her mouth and the other around her neck. She shouted into his hand, and he felt her breath strike hot against his skin, and he knew he couldn't go through with it.

One panicked glance into Erik’s eyes, and the other man realized it too. “Raoul, hold her.” He ordered, and swung the car around in a wide turn, leaving it rattling, but parked, at the side of the highway. Roughly, he shoved Raoul off his wife and into the backseat. “Close your eyes if you need to.”

Raoul did, and so he heard rather than saw the struggle. It was oddly short, just a brief scuffle of motion cut off with a short groan from Antoinette. Then, he heard the dull sound of something snapping. 

It took him a second to realize that the sound was her neck being broken. The whole event hadn’t taken more than two minutes, in the end.

They sat there at the edge of the highway for a solid minute of silence and short, harsh breaths, before Erik turned to him. “Raoul. Raoul, are you with me?”

He opened his eyes. “Yes, I am, I'm sorry, I just panicked, and--”

“No, it's alright, I don't blame you.” Erik said gently, laying one hand on Raoul’s face and turning him gently away from the passenger’s seat. “No, don't look at that. Are you alright to drive?”

Raoul nodded. “Sure.” He almost whispered. “Sure, I am.”

“Good, darling. All you have to do is get us there now— slowly, giving me time to change.”

“I remember the plan, Erik.” Raoul said, sharper than he had intended even as he scrambled into the front seat.  
Erik, understandably, didn’t seem in the mood for fighting. “I’m glad. Now drive, please.”

And so Raoul drove on, down the last deserted stretch of road, ignoring the corpse that had been quickly bundled under the backseat. The dead Mrs. Dietrichson lay just where he himself had been ten minutes before.

 

***

 

Earlier that afternoon, everything had seemed simpler. Or, calmer anyway. All Raoul had to do was follow the plan. 

Step one: leave his rate book on his desk when he left the office, as though he had forgotten it. Simple enough, even if it felt oddly symbolic. The ‘forgotten’ rate book lay on his desk like a love note; the first gesture of the night towards commitment. Raoul drove home, thinking of Erik.

When he reached the apartment complex, he tturned the car smoothly into the garage. This was part of the alibi too.   
“Hey, Mr. Chagny.” The attendant waved an oil-stained rag at him in greeting.

“Hi, Charlie. Could I get a wash job on this?” Raoul gestured at his car as he slid out of it. 

“Sure, but how soon do you need it? I’ve got two cars ahead of you.”

Even better. “Whenever you get to it, Charlie. I’m staying in tonight.”

“Okay, Mr. Chagny. I’ll have it all ready for you by tomorrow morning.” He held up his hand, smiling. Nice guy, Charlie.

Raoul tossed him the keys, and headed for the elevator. Up in his apartment, he went straight for the phone. “Hey, Lou. I left my rate book on my desk earlier, and since we share an office, I was wondering if you could get me some numbers on the public liability bond I’ve been figuring? Yeah, thanks, Lou. I’ve got a pencil and paper here, just let me take this down….”

Lou Schwartz lived up in Westwood, which would make this a toll call. There’d be a record of it, which meant a record that Raoul had been home tonight.

Lastly, he gathered his supplies: adhesive tape, ankle wrap, hat worn low over his brow just in case he passed someone who could recognize him later. He left the building by the fire escape, and was seen by no one. The walk up to Loz Feliz wasn’t that long; within twenty minutes the could smell honeysuckle wafting out on the breeze. It smelled just as it had the last time he was here, only stronger, now that it was evening.

Mrs. Dietrichson’s sedan was parked in the driveway, the way Erik had promised it would be. Raoul slipped into the backseat, and rolled under it. The dark interior of the car swallowed him up, and he waited to hear the couple’s footsteps.

 

***

 

Soon the station was visible in the distance. The building hunched down in the dark, with clusters of people scurrying around it as they waited for their train to pull in. “Erik, we’re here.” 

“Oh, please,” Came a voice from the backseat, high and lilting and barely recognizable. “call me Antoinette.” 

Raoul whipped his head around, and there ‘she’ was— a slightly taller Antoinette Dietrichson in the backseat, hands folded neatly in ‘her’ lap, and hat tilted low to hide Erik’s mask. “Wow.” Raoul whispered. 

“Am I believable?” Erik leaned forward anxiously.

“Yeah. Yeah, you really are. I’d think you were a woman myself if I didn’t know better.”

“Excellent. Oh, we’re here!”

“Erik?”

“Yes?” He turned back to Raoul, but kept one eye on the station up ahead. 

“Before we get there….I love you.”

“Well, you could have said that at the station, since you’re the supposed Mr. Dietrichson.” Erik said practically. “But obviously I love you too.”

“Straight down the line?”

“Straight down the line, baby. Now, pull up here, and do _not_ forget to open my door for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They laughed nervously, then Raoul did as he had said. Erik swung the crutches awkwardly out of the car, then pushed himself up on them. On cue, Raoul laid a hand on Erik’s back as though supporting his ‘wife.’ They headed up to the station entrance, and he could feel the bones of Erik’s spine shift through his jacket. Erik spoke in a low voice, barely seeming to move his lips. “Now, you start the car just as soon as the train leaves. At the sign for that dairy you turn off the highway onto the dirt road. From there it’s exactly eight tenths of a mile to the dump beside the tracks. Remember?”

“I remember everything.”

“You’ll be there just before the train. No speeding. You don’t want the cops stopping you— not with _that_ in the back.” 

“Erik, we’ve been through this a hundred times.”

He continued relentlessly. “When you turn off the highway, cut all your lights. I’m going to be back on the observation platform. I’ll drop off as close to the spot as I can. Wait for the train to pass, then blink your lights twice.”

Raoul nodded, and they fell quiet as they stepped up to the station platform.

“San Francisco train, sir?” The redcap asked him. 

“Car nine, section eleven. Just my wife going.”

“Car nine, section eleven. Yes, sir.”

Erik handed his coat to the redcap, who led the couple to car nine. There was one brief, bad moment, where the conductor saw the lady on crutches and moved to help, but Raoul stepped in front to block him. “It’s alright, thanks. My wife doesn’t like being helped.” He arched an eyebrow at the conductor— _women, you know?_ — and the man nodded. Raoul could feel Erik’s back shaking slightly under his hand, and knew he was trying to stifle another nervous laugh.

And then it was done, with Erik leaning down from the train steps to kiss his ‘husband’ goodbye, just as they heard the shouts of “All aboard!”

“I’ll miss you, honey.”

“I’ll miss you too. Take awfully good care of yourself with that leg, alright?”

“Of course. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Raoul said softly, then stepped away from the train.

Like any loving husband would, he stood on the platform waiting until it had pulled away, watching it head off into the night.


	8. Breathed Together

Raoul tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the deserted train tracks. They had gotten the timing correct, thankfully; it had been about ten minutes since he’d arrived and parked the car at the top of a small ridge. Below him on one side, the dump crouched, a dark valley lying in wait. On the other side lay the train tracks, everything as hushed and still as one would expect on a nearly deserted stretch of highway at midnight. Raoul could almost fall asleep here.

Not too far off, a whistle sounded, and Raoul jerked up straight in his seat. One hand now resting on the door handle, he waited. 

The train hummed in the distance, before the sound grew into a roar of steel against the tracks as the huge line of cars swept past him in a blur. Raoul strained his eyes, searching for the observation car trailing the end of the line.

And there it was. A dark shadow of a person ducked under the car’s railing, and rolled off the platform more gracefully than Raoul would have expected Erik to be able to move in a skirt. He landed in a crouch, and looked up to find Raoul. The white of his prosthetic mask caught the moonlight, like a blank face turned upwards towards the car.

Raoul knew what to do. He swung himself out of the car, and his fingers fumbled immediately for the door handle to the backseat. They didn’t have a lot of time; the longer they stayed out here, the more likely it was that someone would come across them— and at this point, there was really no way to explain things.  
He lifted it-- he lifted her-- he lifted the body easily enough, carrying it like a bride through the darkness to where Erik waited. 

“Good, good.” The other man hissed, casting his hat and crutches down beside the corpse. “No one saw me after I got on the train, so we should be safe.”  
“Are you sure you weren’t seen?”

“Yes, darling. Now let’s hurry, I dare say it’s midnight by now.”

In no mood to linger here himself, Raoul nodded. On the way back to the car, Erik tripped only once, when the skirts tangled ungracefully around his ankles. Instinctively, Raoul reached out to steady him, and ended up catching his lover in an odd sort of embrace. They stood briefly disoriented, halfway up the small hill, before Erik burst out laughing. “Oh my God, this plan was insane.”

Raoul blinked, then joined him. Despite the need to hurry, they stood there coming to terms with their own audacity. “It still worked, right?” Raoul said as soon as he could talk.

Erik sobered up quickly. “So far. We’ll see.”

On that more somber note, they headed back towards the sedan. As soon as he slid into the front seat, Erik was stripping the dress off to reveal a plain undershirt and trousers beneath. He reached back to get his jacket from where it had been stowed, then froze at the sound of the car’s starter grinding.

It didn’t catch. “Raoul….”

“I know, I heard it!” He tried again, but the motor still didn't catch. He tried a third time, and the starter barely even turned over. “Maybe the battery—”

“No, it had better not be the battery. We can’t exactly call a damn tow truck from here!” Erik snapped, his gold eyes stretched wide in the shadows of the car.

“I _know_ , Erik. Okay. Okay, here, just let me…” Slowly, Raoul reached forward, and turned the ignition key all the way back to the ‘off’ position. He held his left thumb over the starter button for a breathless moment, before punching it with swift decision. The starter ground again, and both men held their breath as Raoul turned the ignition key back to ‘on’ and threw the hand throttle wide open. 

Finally, the car growled to life. Raoul eased the throttle back down, his hand shaking a little, and leaned back into his seat. “Holy shit.”

Erik laughed. “Didn’t know you had that in you. I’ve never heard you swear. “

“Well, clearly you’ve brought out a couple new sides of my personality.” Raoul answered dryly.

“I’m terribly honored. Now, let’s go, baby.” 

Raoul released the handbrake and slid the car cautiously into reverse. Beside him, Erik bent down and started peeling the adhesive tape from his leg, occasionally wincing at the sting. For the next ten minutes, they were silent. Raoul was careful to keep one eye on the road and the other on Erik, but the other man just worked methodically to remove the bandage, before flipping the makeup mirror down to readjust his hair. His glossy dark hair seemed to have somehow shifted to the left, and Raoul realized for the first time that it must be a wig.

The wig didn’t really surprise him as much as Erik’s current behavior did. Some part of Raoul had expected him to go to pieces— even if he didn’t love the late Mrs. Dietrichson, that was his _wife_ , and anyway they had just _killed_ someone. Hell, Raoul felt a little like going to pieces himself. But Erik just sat there, with a calm smile, fixing his hair. 

At some point they stopped, to turn the headlights back on and switch places before they got into the city. It was Erik’s car, of course, Raoul just hadn’t been certain that he would be up for driving immediately after all that. 

Clearly, he was. 

A block from his apartment house, Erik stopped the car in the middle of the road. “Raoul, you should get out here.” 

Raoul blinked, pulled out of his thoughts. “Right. I'll see you...well, whenever we see each other again.” He reached for the door handle, but Erik’s gloved hand got there first, closing over Raoul’s fingers and pulling him back. “Darling, aren’t you going to kiss me?” 

“Sure, I’m going to kiss you.”

Erik’s arms closed around his body. “Then come here, silly.”

He let Erik kiss him, his lover’s rough lips nearly motionless against his own as they breathed together. Everything was hushed on the dark street, and the car interior lay heavy with the scent of Erik’s strange perfume.

With his eyes closed, the whole thing felt deeply reminiscent of a funeral party.

 

***

 

The next morning, when Raoul heard the story breaking on the radio, his hand shook so badly that he spilled coffee all across his counter. Work was worse, with people in the office discussing the story, and the day after that was worse yet. That was the day Christine Daaé was officially assigned to investigate the death of Mrs. Antoinette Dietrichson.

By the time Raoul walked into the office that day, his nerves were tying themselves into knots. He kept his hands in his pockets because they were shaking, and he put on dark glasses to hide his eyes, and then he took them off so that no one would wonder why he was wearing them. He tried to hold himself together, but could feel himself falling apart.

Christine met him in the atrium that morning. “Come on, Raoul. The big boss—“ here, she performed the eyeroll-wince combo that was office tradition when discussing Mr. Richard. “—wants to see us.”

“Okay.” Raoul returned the derisive gesture, and fell into place walking beside her. He tried to make his next question seem casual. “You think it’s about that Dietrichson case?” 

“Must be.” She huffed, shaking back a piece of hair that had fallen loose from her updo. “Damn situation has been giving me an ulcer.”

“That bad? It seemed like a pretty straightforward accident case to me.”

“Nothing’s straightforward with that much money on the line. Did you know it was a double indemnity case? Twice the money to pay out, just because train accidents are rare.”

Well, of course Raoul knew, that was why he and Erik had planned such an elaborate cause of death for her, but he hissed out a breath in reaction anyway. “Man. So, I guess Richard’s been on your case?”

“Not yet, but it happened the day before yesterday, so I’m guessing that’s what this meeting’ll be about.”

“What do you think he wants me for?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. Guess we’ll find out now.” They had reached Mr. Richard’s office. “But you know how he gets, you might just be there for an audience. Let’s hope this song and dance doesn’t take too long.”

No one was there yet, but the door was open, so Christine shrugged and entered. Raoul followed. “So, what do you have on the case so far?”

“An autopsy report. No heart failure, no apoplexy, no predisposing medical cause at all.” Christine shrugged. “The poor lady died of a broken neck.”

“When is the inquest?”

“They already had it, this morning. Her husband and daughter made the identification.” She shook her head. “She had a _daughter_. The girl’s only sixteen years old.” Raoul watched her hand go to her cigarette case, before she visibly remembered that she was standing in her boss’s office. “Anyway. Some railway workers saw Mrs. Dietrichson going through to the observation car. The whole thing was over in forty-five minutes. Verdict: accidental death.”

“What do the police figure?”

“That she got tangled up in her crutches, and fell over the railing. They’re satisfied. It’s not their money on the line.”

They heard Richard’s voice in the hallway just then, and Christine hastily straightened up from the desk she was leaning on. 

“I believe the legal position is now quite clear, gentlemen. Stand by, I may need you later.” Richard said over his shoulder, entering the room. “Oh, Mr. Chagny, and the lovely Miss Christine! So glad you’re here.” He glanced disapprovingly at Raoul’s coat, which he had slung over his arm. “You find this an uncomfortably warm day, Mr. Chagny?”

Raoul flushed. “Sorry Mr. Richard. Didn’t know this was formal.” He couldn’t resist adding the last sentence, but the coat still went back on. 

Mr. Richard smiled frostily. “Sit down, please.”

They sat. Predictably, Mr. Richard remained standing. He crossed the room in a few strides, pausing when he was perfectly silhouetted in the morning light from the window. Raoul sometimes thought that he too should have gone into the theater business. It was less charming on him than on Christine. 

When Richard stayed silent, Christine took her cue to recount the information she had just told Raoul. 

“Hmm, very interesting. Anything else?”

“Not much. The office secretary at Dietrichson’s school, the deceased was a teacher, says she didn’t know anything about the insurance policy being put into Dietrichson’s file. That could be something, maybe. There is a daughter, but all she remembers is Raoul Chagny here talking to her mother about accident insurance at the house one night.”

Raoul broke in. “I couldn’t sell her at first, especially since her husband was against it. But I worked her over at the house, and went down to meet her at work the next day. I closed the deal then.”

“A fine piece of salesmanship there, Mr. Chagny.” Richard’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Sir, there’s no sense pushing him around now.” Christine spoke briskly. “He’s got got the best sales record in the office, and you know, the thing about _fluke accidents_ is that no one can expect them to happen.”

“Fluke accidents? Are we sure it _was_ a fluke accident?”

There was a charged pause. 

“Don’t follow you.” 

“You don’t, my dear Miss Christine? Then what do you think of this case, the one that might cost us a great deal of money? As you know, it contains a double indemnity clause. What is your opinion?”

“As of yet, no opinion at all.” She said, in a clear refusal to let him play the room.

“Not even a hunch? One of your famous little hunches?”

“Not even a hunch.”

“I’m very surprised to hear that. You see, I’ve formed a very definitive opinion. In fact I’m quite sure I know what really happened.”

“You know you know what?” Christine said tolerantly, while Raoul’s stomach flipped from an unpleasant mixture of his ongoing annoyance at Mr. Richard and a newfound sense of fear.

“I know it was not an accident.” He turned towards them, spreading his hands out at his sides. “Well? What do you two say to that?”

“You’ve got the ball.” Christine said calmly. “Let’s see you run with it.”

“You know, there's a widespread feeling that just because a man has a large office—“ the dictograph on his desk buzzed, and he picked up the earpiece and put it in. “Yes, Charlotte? Oh, he’s here? Have him come in.” He replaced the earpiece in its holder, and picked up his sentence in midstream. “...that just because a man has a large office, that makes him an idiot. Well, I’m not an idiot. Now, I’m having a visitor, if you don’t mind.”

When they started to stand, he waved them back down. “No, I want you two to stay here. Watch me handle this.” 

Mr. Richard opened the door. “Hello, Mr. Dietrichson. Thank you for coming in.”


	9. About The Insurance Business

“I’m glad to be here, if this will help.” Erik entered the room with a quiet dignity, wearing a dark gray suit, a black hat, and the same black lace gloves he had worn on Raoul’s second visit to the house. Mourning clothes. His hands were folded over a leather document case.

“This is Miss Christine Daaé.”

Erik nodded at her, his eyes expressionless.

“And Mr. Chagny.”

“We’ve met. How do you do.” 

Raoul nodded, forcing himself to break Erik’s gaze afterwards.

Richard gestured him to the chair in front of his desk. With a brief hesitation Raoul doubted anyone else noticed, Erik sat.

Richard began. “Mr. Dietrichson, I assure you of Pacific All-Risk’s sympathy in your bereavement. I hesitated before asking you here for this so soon after your recent loss.”

Erik waited silently. His hands lay still over the folder in his lap.

“But now that you’re here, I hope you won’t mind if I plunge straight into business. You know why I asked you here, don’t you?”

“No. All I know is that your secretary made it sound very urgent.” There was the slightest hint of a question at the end of his sentence.

“Your husband had an accident policy with this company.”

Erik’s visible eyebrow rose.

“Evidently you didn't know that.” 

“No. We had some talk about it at the house, but I didn’t think it was a good idea, and she didn’t bring it up again. I thought Antoinette—“ Erik’s voice choked slightly at the name, but his shoulders were still. “I thought she had dropped the idea.”

“She took the policy out a few days later.”

“I see.”

“You’ll probably find the policy when you go through her personal effects.”

Erik shrugged. “Her safe deposit box hasn’t been opened yet. It seems a tax examiner has to be present.”

“Mr. Dietrichson, I don’t want you to feel you are being questioned, but there are some things the company needs to know.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” Richard puffed a sigh. “We have the report of the coroner’s inquest. Accidental death. But we are not satisfied, Mr. Dietrichson.”

Erik stared up at him coolly.

Raoul chanced a glance at Christine, whose facial expression showed a mixture of skepticism and mild interest.

“If I may be frank with you, Mr. Dietrichson, man to man…”

All three waited.

“We suspect suicide.”

_Oh, thank God._

Erik clapped one gloved hand against his mouth, knuckles pressing into his lips. He looked like he had been given a shock, but Raoul would bet money that the gesture was actually to suppress a laugh. 

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Richard said, rather tonelessly. “Would you like some water?”

Erik nodded, and Richard gestured impatiently at Raoul, who hurried to pour a glass from the thermos that sat on a nearby stand. When he handed the glass to Erik, their eyes barely even met. They were getting good at this.

“Had your wife seemed especially moody lately, Mr. Dietrichson? Was she ever prone to irrational impulses?” Richard pushed. “Did your family have any financial worries?”

“Antoinette was perfectly sane.” A note of warning injury in his tone.

“Oh, no one’s saying she wasn’t. Only, perhaps she had some trouble, if you see what I mean.”

At Raoul’s side, Christine’s lips had tightened in clear disapproval.

“I do see, and quite frankly, I don’t like it at all.” Erik snapped. “My wife was a good woman of sound mind, and you have no basis for such insinuations!”

“Oh, come, Mr. Dietrichson, there must have been something. Let’s look at the facts.” Richard circled around behind his desk, as though to put more distance between himself and Erik’s redoubled glare. “First, she takes out this policy in total secrecy. Why wouldn’t she tell her husband about such a thing? Because she doesn’t want anyone guessing what she’s going to do.”

“Which would be what?” Erik measured the words out levelly.

“Commit suicide. Next, she goes out to the observation platform, all alone, without speaking to anyone. She would have had to cross the whole train to get there, which is an unlikely thing to do on crutches, unless she had some very strong reason. Next, she does it. Jumps. Commits suicide. In which case, the company is not liable.”

By this time, Christine had closed her eyes in an expression of what appeared to be actual, physical pain.

“You know that, of course.” Norton concluded. “If we should have to go to court—“

“I don’t know anything. In fact, I don’t even know why I came in here today.” Erik made as if to stand. 

“Just a moment, Mr. Dietrichson. I said _if_ we should go to court. I didn’t say we would like to. It would involve a great deal of expense, lawyers, time— perhaps your time, should you be called upon to testify.”

Erik rose from his chair, and Mr. Richard spoke faster.

“But you see, we could settle this quite simply out of court, with a compromise on both sides. A small sum, perhaps half of the—“

“Don’t bother, Mr. Norton. When I came in here, I had no idea you owed me any money. You told me that you did, and then that you didn’t, and now you want to pay me half. You want to argue with me at a time like this, when my family has just experienced such a great and senseless tragedy?” Erik’s voice shook just slightly on the word ‘tragedy,’ the picture of a grieving husband. “I don’t like your accusations, Mr. Norton, and I don’t much like you either. Keep your deal. Goodbye gentlemen, and you, miss.” Sweeping his suit coat back on with a flourish, Erik stalked from the room. He slammed the door so hard it shook in its cheap frame.

There was a rather nasty silence. Predictably, Christine broke it first. “Good job, Mr. Richard. You really carried that ball.”

Mr. Richard, as rattled as his door frame, took a sip from Erik’s untouched water glass. “Well, let him sue. We can prove it was suicide, in court.”

“Can we?” Christine’s voice was icy and deliberate. Raoul knew that something was coming, and crossed his fingers that her seniority and track record would be enough to save her job. “Are you sure about that, boss? You know, the first thing that occurred to me two days ago was the suicide angle, only I dropped it right away, because I know it wouldn’t stand up. You ought to have a look at the statistics on suicide sometime. You might learn a little something about the insurance business.”

“I was raised in the insurance business!”

“Yeah, in the front office!” She fired back, hands flying to her hips. “Come on, you’ve never read an actuarial table in your life. I've got ten volumes on suicide alone. Suicide by race, by color, by occupation, by sex, by seasons of the year, by time of day! Suicide, how committed: by poisons, by firearms, by drowning, by leaps. Suicide by poison, subdivided by types of poison, such as corrosive, irritant, systemic, gaseous, narcotic, alkaloid, protein, and so forth. Suicide by leaps, subdivided by leaps from high places, under wheels of trains, under wheels of trucks, under the feet of horses, from steamboats! But, Mr. Richard, of all the cases on record there's not one single case of suicide by leap from the rear end of a moving train! And do you know how fast that train was going at the point where the body was found? Fifteen miles an hour!” She took a breath, then continued more softly, but with no less intensity. “There was no way that poor woman could have jumped off the end of a train going that slowly, and expected it to kill her. The only reason it did is that she must have landed at _exactly_ the wrong angle. It was a freak accident. We know it, and after that little circus act of an interview, Mr. Dietrichson must know it too. So, no soap, Mr. Richard. We’re sunk, we’re going to have to pay through the nose, and you know it. May I have that?” She took the glass of water off Richard’s desk and drained it in one gulp. He stood, stupefied at her speech.

At that moment, Raoul could have kissed her. 

Christine set the glass down firmly on the desk, and looked back at Raoul. “Come on, Chagny.”

As soon as they were far enough down the hallway, they both started laughing breathlessly. “I can’t believe I said all that.”

“Oh, come on, you’ve been wanting to tell him off since day one.”

“I _have_. I just wish the dictaphone was on. I would have wanted a recording of that.” Christine laughed again, and tugged at Raoul’s shirt sleeve. “Maybe next time you get called in there, you should rent a damn tuxedo.”

“I know! It’s the beginning of June, who expects a man to keep his coat on all day at the office…”

 

***

 

Later that evening, in his own apartment, Raoul laughed again, this time softly into the phone. “Of course, everything’s fine, Erik. You were wonderful in Richard’s office today.”

“You really think so?” Erik’s voice was anxious and breathy through the receiver, and it took Raoul a second to place why the tone was so familiar— it was the same one Erik had used the first time Raoul net him at the house. Although, this time it couldn’t be an act. “I was so nervous, darling. I kept wanting to look at you…”

“How do you think I felt?” They laughed again, still just a little bit giddy. “Where are you anyway?”

“At the corner drugstore, about a block away from you. Can I come up?”

“Alright. But be careful, don’t let anyone see you!”

“I know, sweetheart. See you in a minute.”

“See you.” The phone clicked dead in his hand. Raoul set the receiver back in its cradle, then scanned the living room for anything out of place or messy. 

Someone rapped on the door, and he froze. It hadn’t been enough time for Erik to get there, so it couldn’t be him. 

As quietly as he could, Raoul crossed the room and put his eye to the peephole. 

_What’s Christine doing here?_


	10. Just How He Operates

Raoul opened the door, of course. There was really nothing else to be done.

“Hello, Raoul.”

“Hullo.” 

She walked in, hands clasped behind her back and a faraway look clouding her face. “Look, I’m sorry to come over so suddenly, but there’s just something I’ve been turning over in my head, and it’s bothering me. I figured I might get your take on it.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“The broken ankle. Dietrichson broke her ankle.”

“Right...so what?”

She turned to face him. “So why didn’t she put in an accident claim? Why? Think about it.”

“What are you driving at?” He tried to keep the wariness out of his voice. 

“I don’t know! It’s strange, is all. And I just— I just have a feeling, a bad one, about this case. There’s something off about it.”

“Because she didn’t put in a claim? Maybe she just didn’t get around to it.”

“Or maybe she didn’t know she was insured.”

“How could the woman not know that she was insured?”

She waved a hand. “No, you’re right, that can’t be it. Because you delivered the policy to her personally, right? And you saw her sign it?”

“That’s right.”

Christine shrugged. “Fine, then. I’m just playing with ideas anyway; I know there’s a hole in here somewhere, but I still need to find it.”

“Maybe it was suicide. Maybe Mr. Richard was right.” Raoul suggested.

“No, not suicide. But not an accident either.”

“What was it then?” Raoul asked very quietly.

Christine didn’t answer, just huffed a sigh, and Raoul forced himself to stay quiet and wait. The clock ticked in the background.

Finally, she continued. “Look. She takes out an accident policy worth a hundred thousand dollars— but only if she’s killed on a train. Then a month later, what happens? She gets killed on a train. You don’t think that’s some kind of luck?”

“Bad luck for Pacific All-Risk, anyway.”

She laughed. “Alright, so maybe it’s nothing. But if it’s something…” she trailed off, pacing the room.

“Something like what?”

She continued to pace, silently.

“Something like…?”

He waited; she didn’t answer.

“Something like murder?” 

She sighed again. “I don’t like to assume that. But in this situation, it doesn’t seem unlikely, does it?”

“I don’t know. Who do you suspect?”

“Maybe I like to make things easy for myself, but I always tend to suspect the beneficiary.”

“You mean the husband?”

“Right. The husband. That wide-eyed, puffed up widower who didn’t know anything about anything.”

Raoul laughed, convincingly enough even if it was shaky. “You’re kidding, Christine. He wasn’t even on the train.”

“I know he wasn’t, Raoul. I’m not saying I know how he did it, but I’m sure that he did. Nothing else is likely.” She crossed to the door. “This helped, thanks. But I’ve got to get home, now.”

Thank God. “You can’t stay awhile?”

“No, it’s getting a little late for me. Bye, sweet boy.”

“See you, Christine.” Raoul answered absently.

She went to the door and pulled it open. “Goodnight.”

Raoul followed her, and scanned the hallway for Erik. _If these two run into each other on the way down— damn it._

Through the crack of the partially open door, he could see Erik’s wide eyes. The man had clearly been standing in the hall to listen, and then flattened himself behind the door when it opened. 

Quickly, Raoul pushed it wide to hide him. “Goodnight, Christine. I’ll see you at the office.”

She nodded, and started down the hallway. _Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look—_

Christine had reached the elevator when she turned. “You know, I’d drop in on that man tonight, and get the real story out of him in less than an hour, if it weren’t for Richard’s striped-pants idea of company policy.”

“Would you?” Raoul managed.

“For sure. I’d have the cops on him so fast his head would spin.”

Raoul forced a laugh. “You would, except you’ve got nothing to go on.”

“Sure, I’ve got nothing to go on. Just a decade of experience in this business, and a gut feeling so strong I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Call it women’s intuition maybe, I don’t care, but that man is guilty of murder. It’ll come out eventually.”

With that, she got into the elevator. The two men waited, in shaken silence, as it _chunk-ed_ its way down. Then, Erik slid out from behind the door. Without a word, Raoul chivvied him into the apartment.

They looked at each other for a long moment, heart rates slowing. Then Erik asked, “How much does she know?”

Raoul shook his head. “Not much. But it isn’t what she knows; it’s those hunches of hers. I’ve known her for years; she never gives up on her instincts, and they’re never wrong.” 

“But she can’t prove anything, can she?” Erik clutched at Raoul’s arm. 

“Not if we’re careful. Not...” Raoul swallowed. “Not if we don’t see each other for a while.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed, and he turned away. “For how long a while do you think that would be?”

“Till all off this dies down for good. Look, I hate the idea too, but wouldn’t we both hate going to jail for murder more?” Raoul tried to reason with him.

“Actually, I think it’s more likely we’ll get the electric chair— alright, not funny, fine. But didn’t we do all this so we could be together? Isn’t that what you said?”

“And we will be. We just have to be careful first. Look, you don’t know Christine like I do—“

“And how well _do_ you know this Christine?” He broke in. “You make it sound like you two have spoken pretty intimately.”

“What?” Then Raoul got it. “Erik, it’s not like that. She and I work together, and we’re friends. That’s all. How could it be anything more than that, when I have you?”

“But you won’t have me, not for a long time if you get your way.”

“This isn’t me getting my way! I’m not— alright, this is ridiculous. The point is, she won’t let this go. I’ve seen it before. She’ll have you investigated, have you shadowed, have you followed everywhere you go.” He stopped at the look in Erik’s eyes. “Are you afraid?”

“Yes, Raoul.” His lover answered quietly. “But not of her. I’m afraid of us, Raoul. We’re not the same anymore. We did this so that we could be together, but it’s pulling us apart instead. Isn’t it, sweetheart?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t really care whether we see each other or not, do you?” Outside, they could hear a car whoosh past, and the glaring headlights through the open window played over Erik’s mask. His eyes glittered like a snake’s.

“Stop talking, darling.” Raoul said at last, and kissed him hard enough to leave marks.

 

***

 

The sound of telephone ringers ratcheting around him, Raoul hurried into work the next morning. He was running late. As he headed for his office, he was stopped by the secretary whose name he could never remember. “Mr. Chagny, there’s a young girl who came in to see you. She says her name is Marguerite?”

Raoul frowned. “I don’t think I know a Marguerite. Or any young girls, for that matter.”

The secretary shrugged. “Well, she seemed pretty insistent on seeing you either way. I put her in your office.”

“Alright, well, thank you.” Puzzled, Raoul headed upstairs. 

When he reached his office and opened the door, it took a moment to recognize the young woman leaning against his desk. She was small and drawn in on herself, worrying a handkerchief between her dark fingers and wearing a black mourning suit that looked a little too big for her. Then it clicked. Marguerite. Meg. Meg Dietrichson.

“Hello, Mr. Chagny.” She offered him a weak smile. 

“Hello, Miss Dietrichson.”

“You should call me Meg. Look, I’m sorry to come in like this, but I knew I had to talk to you. Can we talk, please?”

“Alright, Meg.” He answered warily. “Is this something to do with— with what happened?”

“With my mother’s death, yes.” Her lower lip trembled, but her voice was steady. 

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Dietrichson.”

“Meg. Thank you, Mr. Chagny.” She hesitated. “The thing is, maybe it isn’t only about my mother. That’s why I know I need to talk to you, but it isn’t really what I want to talk about.”

“What is, then?” He asked gently.

“My stepfather. I need to talk to you about my stepfather.”

“I know you’ve never much liked him. But isn’t it just because he _is_ your stepfather?” He said without thinking.

“How would you know that?” She held up a hand to stop him from trying to find a response. “No, I know the answer. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. But I _know_ he’s been meeting with you for something.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry, it's just how he operates. It’s not your fault.”

“I haven’t been...what are you talking about?”

“I saw you. Behind the house the other night, I saw a man sneaking up onto the back porch. It was too dark to see his face, but I’m...well, I’m almost sure that there was someone there! It had to have been you.”

Relief swept over Raoul. He’d never been to the house at night. This was just a young girl in a lot of pain seeing shadows, and it was only bad luck that she had stumbled on a wild theory that happened to be a little bit true. “Meg. Meg, look at me.”

She looked, brown eyes trembling with tears. 

“Meg, listen very carefully. I have not been to your house since the evening I gave you a ride out to meet your friend. Do you remember that night?”

She nodded, then blinked. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you, Mr. Chagny?”

“Yes.” He said truthfully. “I am.”

She closed her eyes, burying her face in her narrow hands. Slightly muffled, she said “You must think I’m crazy now, don’t you?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re grieving.”

“Grieving and crazy. But I’m not!” She clutched his arm with one damp gloved hand. “You have to understand, if you did know Erik, you’d see why I thought that.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, and exhaled slowly. Then she met his eyes again. “Look at me, Mr. Chagny. I’m not hysterical. I’ve barely even cried. But I have this awful feeling that something is really wrong, and the last time I had this feeling, it was when my father died.”

“When your father died?”

“Yes.” She sat down on the edge of the desk, and closed her eyes as she began her story. “You see, my father and I were up at Lake Arrowhead, at our family’s cabin, and he got very sick very suddenly. Pneumonia. He had a doctor brought in— but not a real doctor, one of those male nurses, you know? Anyway, it was just the three of us there. One night, I went to my father’s room to check on him. He was delirious with fever— _and all the windows were wide open, and the bedclothes all on the floor!_ This was the middle of winter, and so cold. I ran to close the windows and cover him up, and then I turned round.” She paused dramatically, having gotten caught up in telling the story even as tear tracks dried on her cheeks. “The nurse was standing in the doorway, with a look in his eyes that I’ll never forget. My father died two days later. Do you know who that nurse was?”

Raoul knew. “Who was the nurse?”

“Erik. It was Erik. I tried to tell my mother, but I was just a kid then, and she wouldn’t listen. And then she told me that he was staying to help with the funeral arrangements, and I knew there wasn’t any hope. Whenever my mother was in the room, Erik would get all sweet and nervous and fluttering, almost like a girl. He’d hang on her every word. Six months later, she married him. I tried to put the whole thing out of my head, and I almost made myself believe that I dreamed it. But now it’s all back again, because for the last year, my mother and Erik have been fighting almost every day. And now, she’s dead too, and I just know that Erik killed her!”

“Meg, you’re not making sense. Your mother fell off a train.”

She shrugged off the hand he tried to put on her shoulder. “Yes and what was Erik doing three days before she fell? Trying on a black hat in his bedroom mirror, like he couldn’t wait to see how he would look in mourning!”

“You’ve had a pretty bad shock.” Was all he could think to say. “Are you sure you aren’t imagining all of this?”

She turned her head away from him. “Everyone always believes him. The police, my mother—“ Her voice caught on that word, but she continued. “You. Everyone thinks he’s perfect. He even wears a mask, and still no one thinks he’s hiding anything! Do you want to know _why_ he wears a mask?”

“I’m sure it’s for legitimate medical reasons. And what does it matter, anyway?”

“Have you ever seen his face?”

“Of course I have...?”

“No.” She whispered, leaning towards him across the desk. “His whole face.”

“Guess I haven’t. Why does that matter?” But he couldn’t help adding, “Have you seen it, then?”

She nodded. “It’s disgusting.” But the girl didn’t sound like she was being cruel. She sounded like a child telling a ghost story, a personal experience she still didn’t quite believe was real. It occurred to Raoul that maybe she didn’t. Maybe all of this was just a fragile little girl looking for attention from a stranger by telling tall tales. But he kept listening anyway. “I caught him with it off once. Only once, he’s so careful...but I remember. You couldn’t forget it. The whole left side of his head is like a skull, with rotten flesh hanging off of it, and those yellow eyes glaring out at you.” She shuttered. “It’s like a Halloween mask, but real. And I’m telling you, that’s what he looks like on the inside too! He’s a monster, and no one believes it but me!”

“That’s enough, Meg.” He said, but he had waited until she was already done speaking, and they both knew it. 

She slid off the desk, and walked over to the window, staring down at the street. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to act like this. Sometimes I just start talking and can’t stop, you know? But everything I’ve said is the truth, and you have to believe me.” 

“Everything you’ve been telling me— who else have you told?”

“No one.”

“You haven’t talked to your step father about any of this?”

She shook her head without looking at Raoul, and something occurred to him. “Are you still living at home?”

“No. I moved out.” She sighed. “And Lisa and I stopped talking too. We had a fight.”

“Who are you living with, then?”

“No one. I got myself a little apartment down in Hollywood.”

“Four walls, and you just sit and stare at them, don’t you?” He asked gently.

She turned away from the window with a pathetic little nod. “Yes, Mr. Chagny.”

“Well, how about if I take you out to dinner tonight?” After all, Raoul thought, it was far less than the least that he should do for her.


	11. She Can’t Prove It Darling

They ended up going to a little Mexican restaurant that Raoul knew. By the end of the meal, Meg had loosened up enough to be trotting energetically at Raoul’s side and laughing at his jokes as they headed back to the car. The next day, Sunday, they went for a drive down to the beach. Raoul knew he had to make sure that she didn’t tell anyone what she had told him— in the right hands, it would be like a bomb going off, whether or not any of it was true. 

Raoul preferred not to dwell on whether or not any of it was true. 

He just needed to talk to Erik, before deciding anything. That was all he could think about. They just needed to talk. But he had no chance to do so. Couldn’t even phone him in case All-Risk had the wires tapped…

Raoul could feel his nerves going to pieces again, and being called into Christine’s office first thing that Monday didn’t help things.

“Morning, Raoul.” Christine said briskly. She was sitting behind her desk, with her little boots kicked up on the desktop, one arm slung lazily over the back of her chair. She was smiling wide as she gestured for him to come in. 

“You look to be in a better mood today.”

“Oh I am. You remember the Dietrichson case, the one I was stewing over last Friday?”

“Yeah, sure I do. You figure it out yet?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking it through all weekend, and here’s what I’ve come up with.” Here, she took the unlit cigar she’d been chewing on out of her mouth, and pointed at Raoul with it for emphasis. “Antoinette Dietrichson must have never been on that train!”

Raoul’s stomach dropped. 

“Well? I know it sounds a little crazy, but what do you think?”

“What do I think. Uh, well….well, how could she not have been on the train? Didn’t the conductor and the luggage boys see her get on?” 

“Yes, they did, only here’s the thing: the only people who saw her, not counting the beneficiary of course, were strangers who barely got a few seconds glance at her in all the hurry. And another thing! Every witness agrees that the woman they saw wore a wide hat tilted low over her face. Why would this person try to hide what she looked like, if not…” she stopped mid-sentence, and frowned. “Raoul, are you feeling alright? You look pale.”

“No, I’m fine. Just the heat outside. Go on.”

“Well, alright. But sit down for a minute, okay?”

Raoul sat down, and was glad of it. The office couch was reassuringly solid beneath him as he listened to the rest of Christine’s monologue. 

“Right. So, anyway, I can only think of one good reason the late Mrs. Dietrichson might try to hide her face.” She paused dramatically. “If she wasn’t really Mrs. Dietrichson.”

“Say again?” Raoul managed weakly. 

“Come on, I know it sounds like a wild theory, but think about it! Here’s what I say happened. It’s a little gruesome, maybe, but entirely plausible.” Christine brought her feet to the ground with a thump, and leaned forward across the desk to continue. “Mr. Dietrichson kills his wife beforehand, and stows her body in the back of the car. Then, he meets up with his female accomplice on the way to the station. This accomplice dresses up in the late Mrs. Dietrichson’s clothes, obscures her face so that witnesses won’t be able to describe it later, and uses the deceased’s ticket to board the train. Dietrichson follows in his car. At a prearranged point, the accomplice jumps off the back of the train, Dietrichson dumps the body on the tracks, and there we have it. Pretty fancy, right?”

“Fancy, sure. Maybe a little too fancy. And who’s the accomplice, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Some seriously gutsy mistress, most likely. And I know, the whole theory is sure something, but I’m telling you it all fits together like a watch in the end!”

“Sorry, Christine. Maybe you’re onto something, but I just don’t see it.”

“Well, I do.” She continued implacably. “And listen, Raoul, a murder is never perfect. Everything starts to come apart at the seams sooner or later, especially when there are multiple people involved. We know that Dietrichson must be in on it, plus this dame of his. Pretty soon, we’re gonna know who said dame is, because they’ll show. Sooner or later, they’ll show, because sooner or later, they’ll have to meet. Their emotions are all kicked up— whether it’s love or hate or plain suspicion doesn’t matter. They can’t keep away from each other. They’ll think they’re twice as safe because there’s two of them, but it’s not twice as safe, it’s ten times as dangerous. They’ve committed a murder, and that’s not like taking a trolley ride together, when either of them can get off whenever they please. No, they’re stuck with each other till the end of the line no matter what happens. And the line ends with an electric chair, and then with a cemetery.” She picked up her cigar and startled chewing again. “Dietrichson put in his claim, and I’m gonna throw it right back at him. Don’t suppose you’ve got a match?”

With hands he was proud to say didn’t shake, Raoul lit one for her.

“Thanks. Anyway, let him sue us if he cares to. I’ll be ready, and he _and_ that accomplice will be digging their own graves.”

Screw wire-tapping, Raoul thought. He was calling Erik the second he could get out of this office.

***

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Erik’s voice was light and airy, but clear enough for Raoul to hear it over the sound of rain hitting the transparent sides of the phone booth. 

“What isn’t the matter? Listen, here’s what I know. Christine’s going to reject your claim. She’s sitting back waiting for you to sue, but you’re not going to sue. You can’t afford it now.”

“Oh, really? And what does my lover’s little girlfriend have to stop me with?”

“She not my...that. Really, Erik! And the point is that she’s got a whole lot more than either of us ever expected her to. She called me into her office to talk about it today, and she’s got nearly the whole thing laid out on ice. The whole plan, almost, from beginning to end! She still doesn’t suspect me; she thinks you have a mistress that acted as your accomplice, but that’s about the only thing she doesn’t have figured out.”

There was silence on the other end for so long that he might have thought Erik had hung up, if not for the soft sound of his breathing. But he spoke eventually. “Well, you’re right, that’s certainly frightening. But you know, it doesn’t really matter. She can’t prove any of it, darling.”

“Oh, she’ll find a way.” Raoul answered grimly. “And anyhow, you can’t risk getting up on that witness stand, because if you do, a whole lot of other things are going to come out. Things about you and the first Mr. Dietrichson, for example.”

“What about me and George Dietrichson, for example?” He sounded wary.

“The way he died.” Raoul swallowed. “The way you practically killed him. Look, Erik, if it isn’t true, I need you to say so now. I don’t want to believe any of this, but I don’t know how not to, unless you deny it now.”

“Raoul, I can't believe you would seriously ask me something like that. Meg must have been telling you some of her ridiculous stories. She’s been seeing you, hasn’t she?”

“I’ve been seeing her, if you want to know the truth.” Raoul said recklessly. “And her stories seem pretty interesting to me.” He added more gently, “Erik, I don’t know what to believe.”

“Then believe that you love me.” He paused for a beat. “You still do, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Raoul whispered. “I always will.”

“Then listen to me, when I tell you that you can’t keep talking with that girl. She’s always told stories, and you shouldn’t be taking them seriously.”

Raoul paused. So help them both, Erik sounded sincere. “I believe you. But I have to keep seeing her, or she might yell her head off about what she knows. She seems very…” He struggled for a word to describe Meg’s behavior— which had been clingy and then aloof, weepy and then so determinedly stoic that it only made the child look more fragile. “...distraught.”

Erik snorted. “Yes, she’s been putting on an act for you. Crying all over your shoulder, the lying little—“

“Keep her out of it. All I’m saying is that you’re not going to sue.”

“Because you don’t want the money anymore, even though we can still get it? Just because that girl made you feel like a heel all of a sudden.”

“It isn’t the money on the line anymore, don’t you you understand that, Erik? It’s our necks!”

“All because of what Christine Daaé can do, even though she doesn’t have a shred of evidence? We both know that’s not it, Raoul. It’s because of Meg. Because you can’t stand the idea that someone innocent might get hurt, even though that’s just the way the world works, and you know it.”

“It’s not about Meg! And even if it was, she’s just a kid. Fine, maybe I do feel like a heel about that; she doesn’t deserve any of this.”

Erik snorted, loud and derisive and so much less painstakingly cultured than anything else Raoul had ever heard from him. “The world doesn’t give anyone what they _deserve_. Do you think my life has been fair?”

“Erik—“

“Because it hasn’t been. Do you think I married that woman because I loved her? I would have starved on the street if I hadn’t coaxed her into marrying me. That’s not my fault. I didn’t ask to be born without money, or family, or even a real face.” 

Raoul sighed, suddenly so tired he wanted to drop to the floor right there in the phone booth. What does anyone say to something like that? But then Erik’s voice came over the line again, and now he was all soft and nervous again.

“Raoul? Raoul, are you still there?”

“I’m here. Look,” he paused, trying to gather his thoughts into something convincing, or at least coherent.

“You’re right. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that you ever had to be afraid like that, and I’ll— I’ll find a way to take care of you, even without the money. I’ll find a way to make sure you’re never in a situation like that again. But Erik, you can’t sue. You just can’t.”

“You really care about me, don’t you?” Erik said, something odd in his voice. Raoul was about to agree, when he continued. “But not enough for you to stop trying to push me out of this. Or enough to understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“You don’t understand that this isn’t about whether we can go through with this. We’ve already gone through with this. It’s too late to back out now. So, let’s get this straight for you, Raoul: I loved you, from the moment we met. And I hated Antoinette. That’s the truth, yes, and I’d swear it before a court if I had to. But if I was before a court, you know what else I’d say?” He practically spat the words into the phone.

“What would you say, Erik?” Raoul asked— no, demanded.

“I’d say that I wasn’t going to do a thing about it, until after I met you. Until after _you_ explained the double indemnity clause to me, which _you_ convinced me was worth it. That I’d swear to under oath, because it's the truth. You came up with this plan, and you carried out most of it, and you don’t get to forget about that now.”

“Oh.” Raoul finally said, and he was surprised by how worn out his own voice sounded. “You really sound like you love me, huh?”

“Well,” He responded, hard and smooth as glass over the phone, “sometimes love has to be tough.” He sighed heavily, and Raoul could almost hear Erik’s hand coming up to worry his shirt collar. “Darling, I’m sorry I had to be so horrible just now. You know I don’t like acting that way— I never want you to think of me like that! I only said those things because I wanted you to remember.”

“Remember what?” 

“That we’re in this together. Till the end of the line.”

“You know, Christine said something like that today, about murderers.”

Erik hummed in question, seeming pleased that Raoul had calmed down. Had talking to him always been so up-and-down, so tiring?

“That they have to ride together till the end of the line, because once you’ve killed someone, there’s no getting out of the situation for either of you.”

Erik laughed, a soft warm sound that could have dried Raoul’s rain-streaked clothes from the inside out if he wasn’t still so rattled. “I like that. It’s kind of romantic, isn’t it, sweetheart?” Another soft laugh came through the phone line, into Raoul’s ear. “We’re closer than married now.”

“I suppose we are.” Raoul didn’t bring up the other part of what Christine had said. The part about the cemetery.


	12. Cannot Be Accounted For

So Raoul kept seeing Meg Dietrichson, because of course he had to. Someone had to, certainly— Raoul often thought, privately, that the girl needed a minder as much as she needed a friend. And it turned out that she needed a friend quite badly. Her story came out in pieces to Raoul over the next week. Apparently she had been lonely even before her mother died. The other girls at her school had refused to speak to her for the last year; it was over some incident involving rumors Meg had spread about one of them, which turned out to be uncharitable and somewhat untrue. This seemed like it would be entirely Meg’s fault, but she insisted tearfully to Raoul that she had learned her lesson a long time ago, but the other girls had yet to forgive her. 

Perhaps Meg Dietrichson’s stories of grade school drama wouldn’t have interested Raoul if there had been anything else for him to occupy himself with. But Christine and Erik had both remained silent ever since the thunderstorm (both metaphorical and literal) of the previous Monday afternoon. All Raoul had to do was wait, and listen to little Meg. And anyway, the more he learned about her, the more reassured he felt about his decision to dismiss her stories about Erik. Apparently, the girl told stories about everyone, only some of which were truthful. 

On the night when everything began moving once again, Meg and Raoul had taken a walk up through the Hollywood Hills, and put down a blanket to listen to the symphony as it performed inside the Hollywood Bowl. It was a warm night, but Meg still sat with her skinny knees hugged up to her chest, arms gripping each other tight around herself. She had been uncharacteristically quiet all evening. 

Raoul struck a match to light his cigarette, and glanced over at Meg just as the brief flame reflected off her cheek, pulling out the red tones that flickered under her skin. Her lips were pressed together, and her large, dark eyes stared down at the musicians below them so intently that Raoul doubted she was seeing them at all. 

“What’s wrong, Meg?”

The girl just shook her head  
.  
“You won’t tell me?”

She puffed out a long sigh through her nose. “Oh, Raoul. Of course I will— I wouldn’t tell anyone _but_ you. It’s Lisa.”

“Sorelli?” Up until now, Meg had pointedly avoided bringing her up. “What about her?”

“She killed my father, she and Erik, together. Lisa helped him do it, I know she did!”

Faint, tinkling music drifted up from the Bowl, like the world’s most untimely music box.

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve been following her. I know that’s bad, but I just needed to know who...I just needed to know what she was up to. You understand.”

Raoul didn’t. “Go on.”

“Well, she’s been taking the bus to Erik’s house, night after night. It was Erik and her all along, I just know it was! And the night of the murder—“

“You promised me you’d stop talking like that.”

“—she was supposed to pick me up, to go to a...well, to a place that she knows, that part isn’t important. The important part is that she never showed. She said later that she had been sick. Sick!” Meg shook her head again, hair shaking down around her partially obscured face. “She couldn’t show up because the train was leaving with my mother on it.” 

She had started to cry. Raoul reached out, and pulled her close with one arm around her shaking shoulders. He hoped the gesture was comforting, because he wasn’t sure what other reassurance he could provide. His own head was spinning. 

“Maybe I’m just going crazy. Maybe it's all in my head.” Meg spoke into the shoulder of Raoul’s jacket.

“Sure, it is all in your head.”

“I wish it was, Raoul.” She sounded very grown up all of a sudden, as though conversation had aged her. “I wish it was, because you know something? I still love her.”

 

***

 

Lisa Sorelli, huh? There had been so many twist and turns, so many shocks in Raoul’s life over the last few months, that this almost didn’t feel like it was one. So, a delinquent queer woman had been meeting with Raoul’s murderous secret lover for unknown purposes on a regular basis over a period of weeks. Why not? That might as well be happening; it was no stranger than any other bombshell that had recently been dropped on Raoul’s life.

But it was nothing compared to the news he got from Christine the next day.

At least it wasn’t a formal conversation in her office this time. His nerves were spared that much; she simply stopped him in the hall that afternoon as he was leaving his office. 

“Afternoon, Raoul.”

“Hey, Christine.”

She was smirking. “You should really congratulate me, you know.”

“Yeah? What for?”

“Oh, nothing much. The Dietrichson case just busted wide open, is all.” she leaned back, kicking one heel up against the wall.

“How do you mean?”

“The accomplice showed. That someone else that I was telling you about? I know who it is.”

“No kidding.” Raoul leaned back against the wall too, facing her, trying to get his heart rate to slow down. “Who is it?”

Christine shook her head, and laughed. “You wouldn’t believe. It’s the last person anyone would imagine.”

“Is it?”

“Don’t ask me, I’ll tell you _after_ the lawsuit starts. Dietrichson filed suit against us, but that’s alright. When we get to the courtroom, I’ll tear him apart. Come on, Raoul, I’ll buy you a martini and we can talk.”

“No thanks.”

“With two olives..?”

“No, I’ve…I’ve got to get my shoes shined. Got a date tonight.” He grinned.

Christine shook her head, smiling. “Ellen again?”

“Who?”

She frowned. “Ellen. That mystery girl you got a phone call from, a couple weeks ago? You said you two were serious.”

“Oh.” Raoul forced a laugh. “Sorry, I guess I misheard you. You’re right, it’s Ellen.”

She looked at him strangely, but seemed willing to brush the moment off. “Well, alright. So long, Raoul, I’ll let you go get ready for your date.”

“So long, Christine.”

As soon as she turned the corner out into the lobby, Raoul doubled back, ducking into the elevator in the hall. _I can’t just leave, not till I know who she’s got as a suspect. Don’t know if she’s playing cat and mouse with me— what if she knows everything? What if she knows that I’m the—?_

The operator coughed politely.

“Oh, sorry.” He gave Christine’s floor number, and the elevator began creakily to rise.

Upstairs, the last few people were leaving, so it wasn’t hard for Raoul to slip into Christine’s office without being seen. Inside, it looked the way it always did. The desktop was bare, and the drawers were all locked. But Raoul’s eye fell on the dictaphone sitting in one corner. A record was in it, and the needle was already about two thirds of the way to the end. 

_Here we go._

Raoul crossed the room, steps quiet on the deep carpet, and lifted the needle. He set it back at the beginning of the record, and flipped the switch to playback position. Raoul didn’t let himself hesitate before starting the machine.

Christine’s voice crackled sharply out through the horn, and he leaned back against the wall to listen. 

“Memo to Mr. Richard. Confidential. Dietrichson file. With regard to your proposal to put Mr. Chagny under surveillance, I disagree absolutely. I have investigated his movements on the night of the incident, and multiple witness reports place him firmly at his apartment from 7:15 onward. In addition to this, I have known him personally for years, and would vouch for his character without any reservations.”

 _Oh._ Raoul stopped the machine. He sat down slowly in the desk chair, took out a smoke, thought better, and put it back in the package. He turned the machine back on, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“...furthermore,” Christine’s voice continued, “no direct connection has been established between him and the beneficiary and suspect Erik Dietrichson. However, such a connection has been made between said suspect and a young woman. This woman has been observed to visit the Dietrichson residence very late on the nights of July 9th, 11th, 12th, and 13th. She has been identified as a Miss Lisa Sorelli, former ballet student, age 22, residing at the Lilac Court Apartments on North La Brea Avenue.” 

Christine’s voice paused here, and Raoul could almost hear her taking a drag off her cigar. The scent of her smoke still lingered in the room. “Lisa Sorelli’s movements on the night of the incident have been checked, and cannot be accounted for. I am currently preparing a more detailed report for your consideration, but it is my belief that we already have sufficient evidence against both Erik Dietrichson and his accomplice to justify requesting police action. I strongly urge that the entire matter be turned over to the district attorney. Respectfully, Christine Daaé.”

The needle continued to whir across the record, but all that came out of the horn was dead space.

For the first time in weeks, Raoul felt genuinely calm. It seemed very clear now what he had to do.


	13. Pretty Little Widower-In-Training

There wasn’t the slightest breeze that evening, and the air lay still over the city, as though it was just as fast asleep as most of the residents. It was only ten pm, but the heat had driven almost everyone inside early, and now only the occasional growl of a passing car broke the silence. 

Raoul’s mind was near-silent too as he drove. His thoughts were filled only with a quiet awareness of what he would have to do when the drive ended, a quiet awareness of where the night might lead. 

He had planned the evening out carefully; Erik had taught him that much. He had gone home after work and waited, pacing back and forth across his stiflingly small apartment (why hadn’t he ever realized how small the place was before? How dingy, how depressing?) before flinging himself down onto the sofa, staring out the window, and jumping up to pace the room again. This cycle repeated for almost four hours, and so Raoul was almost relieved when the clock struck the hour he had been dreading. Ten o’clock, dark and late enough for him to go see his lover. 

Now, in Los Feliz, he made the final turn onto Erik’s street. Raoul’s hands were surprisingly steady on the wheel as he parked his car square in front of the house. He knew that Erik would want him to park a block away, but it was finally past time for covert measures. 

Raoul cut the engine, and looked up at the house. The hall and living room lights were both blazing, and the thin curtains didn’t hide the objects within, just cast them in soft silhouette. So Raoul could see clearly as Erik descended the stairs, figure blurred at the edges, but still so distinct. Raoul would know that way of standing anywhere. 

He watched as Erik crossed his foyer into the sitting room, pausing to fuss with the cushion before seating himself in an armchair that faced the door. Raoul took that as a cue. 

He shut the car door gently behind him, unwilling to disturb the silence of the evening. Even here, on this busy residential street, the only noise to be heard was faint music in the distance: a restless piano tune, the same short melody repeating over and over somewhere farther up the street. It wasn’t a bad tune, Raoul thought.

He walked up the drive, and saw that Erik had left the front door ajar— final proof that he was expecting him. 

He obliged, and entered. 

“In here, sweetheart.” Erik’s voice floated towards him. Just as he had watched Erik do earlier, Raoul crossed the foyer and pushed open the half-closed living room door.   
Erik sat, as Raoul already knew, in his armchair on the far side of the room. He wore white silk lounging pajamas, and his half-mask was a shimmering white to match. His golden eyes were calm and unbothered. He smiled as Raoul came in.

Raoul couldn’t really smile back. “Hello, Erik.” He said instead. “Is there anyone else in the house tonight?”

“Nobody. Raoul, are you alright? You sounded so odd on the phone.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Do you mind if I come sit down?”

“Please.” Erik waved him over.

He crossed the room and settled himself on the sofa, close enough to Erik’s chair that the lack of distance felt intimate. “You know, this is just where we were sitting the first day I came over here.”

“Is it?” 

“I’m sure it is. We were talking about automobile insurance then, only you were thinking about murder. And I— I was thinking about you.” 

Erik laughed softly. “And what are you thinking about now?”

“Where do you think that music is coming from?” Raoul asked instead.

“Probably a radio up the street. Is that really all, dear?” Erik’s voice was low and tender. Raoul almost wished he could feel something from it. 

“You’re so strange tonight.” Erik said after about a minute of silence. “What are you thinking about, really? Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“You tell me.”

Erik’s eyes had changed. “Raoul,” He said warily, “What is all this?”

Raoul swallowed. “Goodbye. I think it’s goodbye, Erik.”

“Goodbye? Where are you going?” Erik’s head was turned slightly away, so that he looked at Raoul oddly from the side. His voice was an indeterminate mix of suspicion and concern.

It’s you that’s going, not me. I’m getting off the trolley car right here at this corner. That was what Raoul had planned to say. He had muttered that line to himself a hundred times that evening— in his apartment, in the car. But now he was in Erik’s house, in the same room where they had met, the same room where Erik had first looked at him with such hope, and such clear affection. And Raoul couldn’t say it. He just couldn’t. Instead, he looked Erik in the face, watching for a reaction, and said clearly even if not very loudly: “Lisa Sorelli.”

Raoul didn’t admit to himself that he had been hoping for a reasonable explanation, for a misunderstanding, until it didn’t come. Instead, Erik’s gaze darted to the floor, and he nodded slowly in understanding. “Oh.”

“Right.” Raoul pushed out a short, sharp breath. “Alright, then.”

“Alright what?”

“I’d been hoping you wouldn’t understand, that you wouldn’t know why I was bringing that name up. But you do, don’t you?”

Erik met his eyes again. “Yes. Yes, I do. But you need to let me explain, darling—“

“No, I think I understand just fine.” Raoul stood up. Because he had been seated between Erik and the lamp, the movement made his shadow glance across Erik’s face, darkening the flat planes of the mask.

“Sweetheart, I know it looks bad, but—“

Raoul cut him off again. “Stop. There's something I’ve got to explain to you, actually, so listen. You remember that thing I told you once, that Christine came up with? How when two people kill someone, they’re stuck together…”

“...till the end of the line.” Erik nodded, and, bizarrely, he was smiling. “Yes, darling, of course I remember that. And you see, that’s what we both have to keep in mind now: whatever differences we have, they’ll pass. Because we belong together till the end now, whatever—“

“No.” Raoul shook his head. “No, that’s not how it is, Erik. You’ve gotta see that. It can’t be that way, not anymore. See, I’ve got someone else to finish my ride for me, and I’m getting off at this stop.”

“You don’t mean that Sorelli girl?” The smile was fading dazedly out of Erik’s expression.

Raoul took a deep, collecting breath. “Sure. It’s a— a hell of a thing to do, I know, but I’m willing to let her stand up in court and come off like she was your only accomplice.” He wanted to hesitate before speaking his next sentence aloud, but he didn’t let himself. You’ve said this much, you’ve got to see it all through now. “It’s not like you two didn’t probably plan to do worse to me.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you fucked me over, didn’t you?” Raoul laughed, but it sounded to his own ears like he was choking, or crying. “Come on, I was only in on this because I knew something about insurance, wasn’t I? I was just a sucker, and you would have gotten me out of the way as soon as you had the money.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” He demanded, rising from his chair.

“It was you and Sorelli all along, wasn’t it?”

“That is not true!” Erik was standing now, fists clenched at his sides.

“Sure. Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway. The point is, I happen to know that you and Sorelli are the ones Christine Daaé is looking for.” He shrugged. “Sorelli is young, and a woman, but she’s got a criminal record and no money for a good lawyer. Chances are, she’ll end up doing a fair amount of time as accessory to murder.”

“And what’s happening to me all this time?”

“Well, you’re the older man who tricked her into it, aren’t you? It was your wife that got killed. It was you who would get the insurance money. As far as Christine sees it, it must have been you that killed your wife while Sorelli played decoy on the train, and what’s good enough for Christine is sure good enough for me.”

“But maybe it isn’t good enough for me, Raoul. Maybe I’d rather you and I just sit down and talk.” 

Erik reached out as though to lay a gentle hand on Raoul’s arm, but Raoul stepped back before he could. “Sometimes people are where they can’t talk.”

“Like under six feet of dirt, is that what you’re saying?” 

Raoul made himself make eye contact. “Yeah, maybe. God, Erik, I don’t know how we got to this point, but maybe I am saying that. If that was you, by the end of tonight, they’d just charge it up to Sorelli, wouldn’t they? She got cold feet, she got desperate, she wanted out—“ 

“But that isn’t what happened.” Erik’s voice was full of steel. 

“But it could have been.”

“Is that really your plan?”

Raoul looked down. “I think maybe it’s got to be.”

“Oh, Raoul.” Erik sighed, gently enough that that it made Raoul look up at him in surprise. He was smiling again. “Listen to yourself. You sound so afraid, so angry. And that’s natural! Don’t worry, I’m not going to blame you for losing your head like that just now; anyone would have. But you must understand, you can’t go off with wild threats like that when you don’t have all facts yet.” The persuasiveness in his tone beat at Raoul like a heart pulsing. His eyes were so warm, so kind...

“Fine, then.” Raoul said, hating how small he sounded. “So tell me the facts I don’t have.”

Erik stood with his hands held before him slightly, like they were a peace offering. “Listen, darling, did you ever think that I might have brought Sorelli into this as a way to get us out? So that you and I could still run away, and be together without anyone still looking for Antoinette’s murderer? You’ll understand, if you just let me explain.”

Raoul meant his silence to seem skeptical, but Erik seemed to take it as encouragement. His face, what Raoul could see of it, brightened a little. “You see, Sorelli came by to look for Marguerite, the first time. But I knew just how to make her come back, for me.”

_I’ll bet you did._

Some of his disgust must have shown of his face, because Erik went on: “I did it for us, Raoul! I was working on her for us. She’s a flighty sort of girl, very quick-tempered. I hammered it into her that Marguerite was seeing a boy behind her back, so that she’d get into one of her jealous rages, and then I would tell her where she was. And you know how quickly that would have gotten Marguerite out of our way, don’t you?”

“Yeah, and for once I bet you’re telling the truth. Because it’s just rotten enough.”

Erik took a step towards Raoul.“We’re both rotten now.” He said, almost tenderly. “That’s how we belong together, darling.”

“Only you’re a little more rotten. You were right: now that you’ve explained, I do understand it all. You had me to take care of your wife, and then Sorelli to take care of Meg, and probably me too. And then you would have found someone else to take care of Sorelli.” He remembered Meg’s words from that day in his office, and wished he’d remembered them sooner. “Because that’s just how you operate, isn’t it?”

Erik narrowed his eyes, and hit back at him. “Suppose it is, Raoul. Is your plan for tonight any better? Kill your lover, and blame it on a twenty-two year old girl?”

Raoul looked at him, at a loss for words or possible solutions. In the silence, cheap, tinkling piano music filtered in through the window. Raoul hated it. Raoul hated just about everything right then. “Do you mind if I close the window? I’m a little tired of that music now.” He went to do so without waiting for an answer. The glass came down with a soft, unpleasant whining noise, and the window lock slid easily shut. He stood for a moment, hand pressed against the cool metal frame. His head throbbed.

Erik’s voice, low and urgent, was what made him turn. “Raoul!”

Erik’s chair cushion had been tossed to the floor, and now he held a gun in his hand. It was a small, almost delicate-looking revolver, and it was pointed right at Raoul.

Raoul’s eyes went wide, and he put up a hand as if to say _stop—_

The gun’s report shattered the night.

But Raoul was still standing. “You missed me, I think.” _I can’t believe you shot at me, I can’t believe you shot at me—!_ But there was too much unreality hanging over the situation for his outrage to be any more than a distant voice crying out in his head. Not quite knowing what he was doing, Raoul took a few slow steps towards where Erik stood. He stopped when they were only a couple feet apart. “Is that better? Can you hit me now?”

Erik didn’t shoot, the gun hanging motionless between his fingers. His eyes were so wide, and so very golden. 

Raoul stepped forward again, not really knowing whether he expected to be met with a bullet. “How about now?”

Erik’s shuddering exhale brushed across Raoul’s face, and Erik closed his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you fire?” He asked. 

“I don’t know.” Erik whispered. One gloved hand came up, not to shoot, but just to clutch Raoul's shoulder, cold fingers shaking even as they dug into his arm. “I really, really do not know.”

And then Raoul couldn’t make himself not ask. “Did you ever really love me?”

Erik took a deep, wild breath. “Oh, Raoul, I think I've never really loved anyone. You’re right, I’ve only ever used people, but you must understand, that’s because I’ve never known anything else! My life hasn’t been spent around good people like you. It’s true, I don’t know how to love.” His fingers still clutched at Raoul's arms. And his eyes were wide open now, looking so guileless. “But I could learn to, I know I could. If anyone could teach me, it would be you, darling. Don't give up on me. Forget the money, just take me somewhere, we can start over—”

“Can't do that, Erik.” 

“Why not?” Insanely, he sounded more offended than anything else.

“Because I hate you, and I don't trust you.” The second part, at least, was entirely true. 

“I could change your mind about that.”

“I bet you could. But you won't, because I won't let you again.”

“I won't lie to you--”

“You lied to me ten seconds ago: ‘I've never loved anyone, but _you_ could teach me! _You_ could save me!’ God, you always knew just what to say. I must have seemed pretty pathetic to you, didn't I?”

“I told you the truth, just now.” 

“I dare say you mixed a little truth in there, just for a change of pace.” Raoul shook his head. “I don’t know why I ever loved you.”

Erik scoffed, all pretense at vulnerability gone. “As though you did. You didn’t love me, you loved the pretty little widower-in-training that you saw at the top of the stairs that day. You thought you knew who I was before we even met; all I had to do was be that for you! You never even truly met me before tonight!” Heedless of the gun still hanging from his fingertips, Erik spread his arms wide, laughing. “Well, here I am, sweetheart! This is the man you adored!” 

Raoul stared, just for a moment, and then Erik’s arms dropped back to his sides with a thump, his shoulders collapsing in on themselves. “God, Raoul, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“Stop.” Raoul stepped forward, reaching to take the gun that Erik still held. “Stop, I don’t want to hear this, I—“

“Raoul, baby—”

“Don't.” Raoul shook his head. “I think this is the end of the line, Erik.”

“I thought you said the line ended in a cemetery. Now, don't be ridiculous, just let go of the gun. Neither of us is dead yet.”

“Well, the night is still young!” Raoul laughed wildly, trying to seem braver than he felt. His fingers tangled sweatily with Erik's over the smooth metal surface of the weapon. _We’re standing so close,_ Raoul thought feverishly, _nothing good ever happens when we stand this close._ He could feel Erik’s breath hot in his ear, the only part of him that was ever warm. 

And then, someone's hand pressed the trigger. Raoul would never know which of them had done it. 

The shot rang through the tomb-silent house, but Raoul didn't need the sound to know what had happened. He had felt Erik stiffen in his arms, had heard his short, choked little cry.

His lover was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry. :)


	14. You’ve Always Been Decent

Raoul stood alone in the center of the darkened parlor as Erik’s body became a dead weight in his arms. His head lolled limply onto Raoul’s shoulder, wig knocked slightly askew. He was so much lighter, so much easier to hold up than Raoul would have expected; his weight was hardly more than a child’s. 

When blood began to seep through the corpse’s clothes, slicking Raoul’s fingers with iron, he finally laid it down onto the carpet. Even though he knew there was no point in checking for a pulse, it seemed like something someone should do, so he lay a trembling hand against the paper-thin skin of Erik’s neck. There was nothing there for him to feel.

On impulse, Raoul’s hand moved upward. He curled his fingers around the edge of Erik’s mask, and thought about lifting it. Finally, even if it was too late for the answer to really matter, he could know the truth of Erik’s face. Under the mask, the skin of it felt rough against Raoul’s knuckles. Raoul looked into those wide-blown yellow eyes, which were empty as a doll’s and offered as little a comment on the situation. 

He pulled his hand back, leaving the mask undisturbed. He knew too many of Erik’s truths already. 

***

Raoul had just left the house, shutting the front door carefully behind him, when he realized he wasn’t alone. He turned, slowly, and saw her striding up the front walk with her head ducked down.

It was Lisa Sorelli, with a shabby jacket drawn in close around her angular frame despite the warm weather. She halted. “You.”

“Yeah, me.” Raoul was hardly in the mood to deal with this at the moment, but...damn, she was barely more than a kid. “Evening, Miss Lisa.”

“You called me that a couple weeks ago, and I don’t like it any more now than I did then. The name is Sorelli. What do you want?”

“To give you a present.” He fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out a nickel. “Here.”

She crossed her arms. “What's the gag?”

“It’s, it’s for the pay phone. The one up on the hill. The number is Granite 0386, ask for Meg Dietrichson. Go on, call her. She wants you to.”

Raoul reached out to give her the nickel, but she knocked his hand away. “That girl doesn’t want a thing to do with me.” 

“I know who told you that, and it’s not true. She’s crazy about you, always has been.”

Sorelli just stared at him, but she didn’t move away.

“Granite 0386. Remember. Go call her, now!” Raoul shouldered clumsily past the girl, and pressed the nickel into her hand as he went. 

She didn’t move until he was halfway down the block, when he heard her call out to him. “Wait up a second! Is there blood on this nickel? Wait up, man, did you have blood on your hand?”

Raoul didn’t acknowledge her, just fumbled for the handle on his car door. Yes, there was blood on him— and not all of it was Erik’s. His lover hadn’t completely missed him, the first time he shot. Raoul remembered enough about basic field medicine from his years in the Navy to know that he had been relatively lucky: the bullet had passed straight through his right shoulder, leaving a clean wound, and it seemed to have missed the worst of his major arteries. Still, Raoul figured the blood loss would stop him from being able to walk, let alone drive, within a few hours. Shoulder wounds were always bad.

If he was going to get where he needed to go, he knew he was going to have to hurry. 

 

***

 

It was the first stroke of luck that evening when Raoul found that the man he shared his office with had left it unlocked. He closed the office door quietly behind him and hoping the night janitor hadn’t heard him enter the building. 

With the hand not pressed to his bloody shoulder, Raoul reached out and groped his way blindly across the room. He didn’t dare turn on a light. If someone interrupted him now...well. 

He found the dictaphone easily enough in its accustomed corner. One-handed, Raoul tugged clumsily at the cover, making the machine rattle, and the cloth cover dropped to the floor with a quiet puff of air. He flipped the recording switch, and listened for the soft whir as the cylinder revolved. Only then did he let himself lean back in the desk chair with a punched-out sigh. 

Raoul began to speak. “Office memorandum, Raoul de Chagny to Christine Daaé, Claims Manager. Dear Christine..,”

The dictaphone whirred steadily onward, and Raoul wondered how the hell to start explaining something like this. At last, he went on. “You’ll probably call this a confession when you hear it. The police certainly will.” He tapped his fingers slowly against the desktop, and let out a shaky, scared-sounding breath that hopefully wasn’t loud enough to be caught on the record. “I guess it is a confession. But the thing is, it’s not just that. It’s really more me helping you with your job, or at least i'd rather think of it that way. If you don’t mind, that is.” A short laugh. “It’s about that Dietrichson case. See, you had it alright for a while. You said it wasn’t an accident. Check. You said it wasn’t a suicide. Check. You said it was a murder. Check. You kept hitting all the marks, Christine. Of course you did, you always do. Only problem is, when you went to hunt down the killer, you picked the wrong guy. I can’t blame you for that— the right guy was too close, right under your nose. That’s why you couldn’t see it. Do you want to know who killed Antoinette Dietrichson, Christine?”

The dictaphone whirred, and somewhere on the floor below the office, a trash can clattered. Raoul jumped, then winced and went on. “I killed her. That’s right, me, Raoul de Chagny, insurance salesman age thirty-four, lives alone, no visible scars.” He glanced down at his bloodsoaked hand. “Well, probably one visible scar now. Sure, I killed her. Why? For the money, and because I was stupid. But actually—What the hell. He’s dead now, and I bet I will be too soon, probably in a San Quentin gas room, so it doesn’t matter if I say everything, does it? The real reason I killed that poor woman is because I was in love with her husband. It’s horrible, I know: Mrs. Dietrichson hadn’t done a thing to me, except be married to a man she didn’t want, when I did. I really, really did.” Raoul pulled his cigarette case from his jacket pocket, and dumped its contents out on the table. He picked up a cigarette, but didn’t light it. “For what it’s worth, he said he loved me too. Maybe he even did, it doesn’t matter now. Anyway, that’s why I helped him do it. I didn’t actually kill her, but I was a willing accomplice, and I admit to that freely. And I have committed a murder. I killed Erik Dietrichson tonight, in his home on West Cotorra Avenue, house number 702. His body should still be there. I admit to that too. God, I’m sorry, Christine.”

Just as the last word left his mouth, the dictaphone’s cylinder clattered to a halt. Raoul leaned forward, groaning, and replaced it before collapsing back into his chair. “Listen, there’s one more thing I’ve got to say to you. Actually, there’s a lot I want to tell you, but I don’t think there’s time, and this is important. See, Christine, I’ve got to ask you for a favor. You know Meg Dietrichson, the daughter of the deceased? She lives down in Hollywood. Her address— it’s in the file. I was hoping you could drive down there to break the news to her, sort of gently, so that she won’t hear it first when she sees it in the papers. She knew me. We were— we were friends, I guess. I want her to hear about me from someone decent, and you’ve always been decent. You—“

Raoul broke off. Behind him, he had heard the door to the office open. He turned

Christine stood there in the gaping doorway, one hand still on the knob. Her blue eyes were wide open in dawning realization. A few steps back, the night janitor stood craning his neck to see past her shoulder. 

Without taking her eyes off his face, Christine reached back, and pushed on the door. It swung closed. 

Raoul gave her a faint, tired grin. “Hey, Christine.”

She came forward a few steps, but did not answer. One hand reached out towards him, but then she let it drop back to her side. 

“I know you come to work early most days, but two in the morning?” Raoul kept his tone steady, gentle. After all, this must be a shock.

At last, she seemed to find her voice. “Janitor called. Seems you leaked a little blood on your way in here.”

Raoul nodded. “I’m not surprised.” He gestured at the still-recording dictaphone, and the used cylinder lying on the desk. “If you want the story, it’s here. I wanted to— to straighten some things out for you.”

“So I gathered.”

“Oh. How long were you standing out there?”

She regarded him quietly. “Long enough.”

“Even you can’t figure them all, I guess. So, if you know the story now, are you going to give me the big speech, the one with all the two-dollar words? Let’s hear it.”

She took in a deep breath, then let it out in a short sigh. “Raoul, you’re all washed up.” 

“Thanks, Christine.” 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then, with effort, Raoul gripped the edge of the desk again and used it to pull himself up. At the sight of the blood soaking his sleeve, Christine’s eyes widened. She stretched out her hands again in a stop @ gesture. “Alright, that’s bad. Sweetheart, sit down. I’m going to go call a doctor.”

“What for, so they can patch me up in prison?” He demanded bitterly. “So I can walk over the electric chair under my own power? Is that it?”

Her lips trembled, but her voice was steady. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Well, I’ve got— I’ve got a different idea. Suppose you just went home. Suppose you didn’t find these cylinders till you came in for work in the morning. Suppose you gave me, just gave me a little time.”

“And what good would that do you? You can barely stand.” 

“Sure, I can. Look, I’m right here. Standing. Christine, listen, I just need four hours to get where I’m going.”

She laughed, a wild, humorless sound. “Oh, Raoul, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Sure, I am. I’m going across the border.”

“You won’t make it! Listen, just— just sit down already!” 

He stepped out from behind the desk, wobbling, but moving. She took one step back as though to block the exit, but then stopped. Her eyes were a study in flat calm as she stepped out of his way. “You’ll never make it to the border.” She told him, voice tightly controlled.

“I’ve gotta try.”

He stepped out the door, one hand leaning his weight heavily onto the wall. As he staggered down the hallway, he heard her quiet, implacable words from behind him. “You won’t even make it to the elevator.”

She was right, of course. God, she was always right. Just as he reached the doors to the elevator lobby, a wall of red blackness rose up behind his eyes, and he collapsed. He grabbed the lobby door on his way down, and it swung wildly with him as he fell. Far away somewhere, he could hear Christine dialing a telephone. “Hello? Send an ambulance to the Pacific All-Risk offices on Olive Street… Yes, send a police cruiser too.”

The next thing Raoul was consciously aware of was Christine’s small, cool hand pressing against his right temple. Her voice was still determinedly brisk, but her touch was gentle. “How you doing, Raoul?”

“Oh, just fine. ‘Course I’m fine.”

“They’re on their way.” 

He sighed out a shaking laugh. “That’s probably best. Listen, the girl…”

“Meg Dietrichson?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she…”

“Alright, I heard. I’ll call her up first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks, Christine.” 

They sat in silence for a moment. The tiled floor seemed to grow colder beneath Raoul, and the blurred ceiling lights seemed to grow further away from him. One last thing to say.

“Hey, Christine? I know why you didn’t figure this one out right. It’s because the guy you were looking for was too close. Right across the hall from you.”

“Closer than that, Raoul.”

Raoul smiled, somehow, through the haze of pain. “I love you too.”

She held his hand until after the ambulances arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Woah. I can’t beleive this story is almost over— all that’s left now is the epilogue!


	15. Enough

A group of men filed into the witness room, speaking quietly to each other about nothing in particular. Just small talk. There was an edge of embarrassed discomfort lying just beneath the surface of their casual words; none of them wanted to admit that they didn’t really want to see an execution. 

Their attempts at cavalier worldliness stopped at one thing anyway: each of them removed his hat as he entered the room.

Christine slipped in behind the witnesses and newspapermen, and shouldered her way to the front. She stared into the glass. Reflected in the window into the San Quentin death chamber, her face looked pale and drawn. The small witness room was hot, and so full of people that Christine could hardly breathe, but she made herself stay— she had promised Raoul. 

They had been loading his stretcher into the ambulance that night when he reached out for her. “Hey...Christine…” he had whispered, like his throat was full of blood. 

Her own throat full of something else, she had responded. “Yes, Raoul?”

“When I get off the trolley, at the end of the line, will you be there?”

She stared at him, and felt her eyes brim with tears, and hated herself for it. As though she hadn’t cried enough in her life already.

“You understand?” He had asked.

“Sure.” Christine nodded. “Sure, I’ll be there if you want me to.”

And now, here she was.

On the other side of the glass, the guards were bringing Raoul in. Before looking up to meet his eyes, Christine pulled her pocketbook out of the purse slung over her shoulder, and held it behind her back, so she could make fists around it without her old friend seeing. Then she looked up.

They had shaved Raoul’s head at some point, and that plus the harsh lighting within the chamber made his eyes look hauntingly large and blue. The skin beneath his eyes was stained with gray shadows, as though he hadn’t slept at all in the month of time between the verdict and today. Christine wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t.  
He nodded when he saw her, and gave a little half-empty smile as he was pushed down into the chair.

Christine’s knuckles went white around the pocketbook.

In the end, it didn’t take very long at all. The guards strapped Raoul’s arms and legs down into the restraints, and filed out. One of them paused by the chamber’s exit to turn the great metal wheel that sealed off the chamber’s door. It made a horrible grinding noise as it tightened, and Christine wasn’t the only one who flinched at the sound. Somewhere out in the hall, the acid was being mixed and poured into the pipes, but Christine didn’t break eye contact with Raoul for long enough to see it done. As the witnesses shuffled, and some of the reporters took out pads of paper to take notes, a cloud of what looked like pale, billowing steam rose up from the chamber’s floor, soon passing between Raoul’s eyes and Christine's.

She didn’t make herself keep watching after that. When she was seventeen, Christine Daaé had sat by her father’s bedside and heard him cough out his last breaths. She knew there was no closure in seeing death.

After a moment, a guard spoke, startling everybody in the now-silent room; they had all fallen quiet when they heard the gas start hissing in. “Right. That’s all, gentlemen— lady.” The guard said. “Vacate the chamber, please.”

The reporters and witnesses filed out, and Christine went with them. She didn’t let herself look back. 

Just as she reached the door out of the prison, Christine stopped, and found herself reaching into her pocket. Until her fingers touched the hard corner of a cigarette case, she didn’t remember what she was looking for. 

She pulled the cigarette case out, flipped the lid up—

and stopped. 

Damn.

Christine didn’t have a match. Of course she didn’t.

She widened her eyes and blinked rapidly, unwilling to go to teary pieces in the middle of a _fucking_ prison corridor. She shoved the cigarette case back into her pocket. Her breath shook, but she was composed enough to nod at the guards by the time she reached the exit.

The prison doors opened wide, and Christine Daaé walked out, into the sunlight that hurt her smarting eyes. 

_End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Wow. Okay. Sorry about that ending. I can’t believe this story is done, you know? I know it isn’t that long, but this is the longest fic I’ve ever successfully finished. Thank you so much for all of your reviews, and for giving TSS such nice attention. Tbh, that’s what motivated me. Anyway. Thanks!


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